Part 1
Transcriber’s Note Italic text displayed as: _italic_
THE HIGHLAND GLEN.
THE PROFITS WILL BE GIVEN FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE SUFFERING HIGHLANDERS.
THE HIGHLAND GLEN; OR, PLENTY AND FAMINE.
BY MATILDA WRENCH.
LONDON: B. WERTHEIM, ALDINE CHAMBERS, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
M DCCC XLVII.
MACINTOSH, PRINTER, GREAT NEW-STREET LONDON.
THE HIGHLAND GLEN.
Reader, have you ever visited the western Highlands of Argyleshire? If you have, you will doubtless retain many a pleasant memory of the wild glens and the fair lakes, and the picturesque and magnificent mountains that make up the lovely scenery of these regions of the beautiful. If you have not, trust yourself for a few brief minutes to our guidance, while we strive to recal the impressions of one day, out of many happy days, passed in a Highland village there, not very long ago.
The traveller who visits this spot, seldom leaves it without exploring the upper shores and the Serpent’s Fall, at the head of Loch ——, nor did I and my companion; and, as we were slowly rowed up it against the tide, we gazed in admiration at the pyramidal and craggy mountains that towered majestically above the deep blue waters of the lake, shelving into them, and jutting out in little promontories that almost met on either side, damming up the current so as to make it discharge itself with tenfold impetuosity as it escaped from the narrowed channel. One of our guides was a student of St. Andrew’s, the son of one of the smaller tenantry on the Lochiel estates, and, during the vacation, he was endeavouring, by rowing visitors about the lake, to raise a small sum of money for the purchase of books to enable him to pursue his studies on his return to college. He was a fine athletic-looking lad, with a countenance of remarkable intelligence, and was perfectly well versed in all the legends of the locality. Indeed, his older and more staid fellow-labourer at the oar now and then allowed a half incredulous smile to steal over his weather-beaten face, as Mr. —— related how the shepherd of the glen, in ages past, had, after many warnings, been changed into a mountain on the Inverness side (where, alas! he was wont to stray), and how his faithful wife, who had many a time strained her eyes in vain in watching for his return, was rewarded for her fidelity and devotion, by finding herself and the stone, on which she used to sit in the dim twilight, gradually growing into the shapely mountain that still bears her name,[1] so that, while the world lasts, she shall never again lose sight of her gude man. It was truly an idle tale, and yet not, perhaps, altogether vain, for it might suggest a thought of sin and sorrow, that pair inseparably united by a decree which none may break. But we must not linger thus, lest minutes turn to hours, and patience be tired before her time.
After many a vigorous stroke, and many a long pull, that caused the beads of dew to stand thick upon the brows of our almost-exhausted boatmen, who with all their efforts could scarcely keep their course among the eddies of opposing currents, we at length saw the water of the fall, flowing into the lake, and gazing on it in admiration, like a silver line upon a field of ultramarine, soon after landed.
I will not stop to tell of sketching and climbing, and of boggy swamps that threatened to impede our way to the most desirable points of view. I will only say that we were thoroughly exhausted with fatigue and hunger, when, after some hours spent in exploring, we turned our steps towards a “house of refreshment” which our boatmen had pointed out. They had promised to announce our approach, and accordingly we found the table spread with freshly-made oat-cake, still hot and crisp, a large bowl of rich cream, fresh butter, a bottle of whisky, and a drinking-horn.
The “house of refreshment” was, however, nothing more than a rough Highland hut, situated at the foot of the old road up the glen, if road that could be called which was formed of a succession of vast ledges of rock from three to five feet high; such as it is, it is the only opening among the mountains that, bare and rugged, rise abruptly on all sides, and it is bordered by a narrow track, down which the drovers still conduct their flocks and herds, unless when it is flooded by the mountain torrents, that rush thundering through the glen, and discharge themselves through a chasm in the rock to the left of the hut, forming one of the small streams that feed the lake. A huge, shapeless mass of rock rises just opposite this rustic shelter, and must serve to break the violence of the blasts that sweep the glen, though it also hides the romantic beauties of its entrance.
A little group of three or four children were clambering over the rocks, and dragging huge branches of the bracken, which they had been out to get, as litter for the favourite cow that stood in a byre or shed at one end of the hut. At the sound of their ringing laughter as they drew near, a rough, wiry-headed tabby cat, that had been basking in the sun, put up her back, and after leisurely stretching herself and pawing, walked to meet the merry ones, and purred and rubbed herself against each in turn, turning up her green eyes as if she expected a caress in answer to her greeting. The bracken was dragged to the cow-shed, and then with a yell of self-gratulation, or of hunger, we cannot precisely say which, the whole number rushed into the room we occupied, and as suddenly disappeared through a side door.
Our meal despatched, and neither waiter nor hostess appearing, we had leisure to survey the apartment. The centre was supported on what was literally a roof _tree_, for a venerable beech, that had, perhaps, been the original attraction to the site, still upheld the simple framework of the roof, raised aloft on its double-twisted stem, selected, doubtless, for its promise of double strength. In one corner of the room stood a solid oaken chest, the receptacle of the meal that supplied the family with food; opposite was a bed, or rather shake-down, for it was on the floor, but looked very clean and comfortable; on the third side the peat was giving out its red heat from a spacious hearth, and indeed induced such a feeling of suffocation, that we would fain have opened the window for a little fresh air from the mountains. The massive framework, however, was not made to open; it seemed calculated rather to exclude light as well as air, for the proportion of glass was small indeed; so in despair I went to the side door, and, in opening it, nearly tumbled through, for the earth (there was no flooring) had sunk so much at the threshold as to have left a sort of trench. I recovered myself and stepped over, and there were the four barefooted urchins with their curly heads and their rosy cheeks, the very picture of health and glee, standing round a three-legged stool on which their mother had set a large bowl of smoking potatoes and milk. They were sipping and eating, and just as I entered the room, the elder boy having fished up a particularly attractive, flowery bit of potato between his finger and thumb, ran to the baby, a fine child of some ten or eleven months old, who was sitting on its mother’s knee, and began to cram its tiny mouth with the delicious morsel which broke and crumbled and fell into the infant’s lap; the petted baby smiled and laughed, and helped to pick up the crumbs, and put them, not into her own mouth, but her mother’s. “That’s a braw bairn,” exclaimed the mother, “a right Highland lassie, aye to gie the bit and sup afore you tak’ it yoursel;” and the child, at the sound of its mother’s voice, turned to her, and forgot the potato and nestled in her bosom, and she bent her head over the bonnie wee thing, and gave it a long fond kiss, as though it had been her first-born. She was seated on a low oaken bench, such as in England is called a settle, and a high screen behind her prevented her seeing our entrance.
We stood for a moment looking on the scene of simple domestic happiness before us, and then introducing ourselves by a few words of greeting to the group around the bowl, we thanked the hostess for our seasonable refreshment, and asked what we should pay. “Oh, naething, just naething,” was the reply; “ye’re wanderers and far frae hame, and ye’re welcome.” We remonstrated. She shook her head, saying, “God has gi’en us plenty, and he bids us use hospitality, and ye winna gainsay his bidding, so just gang in peace,” she added, laughing goodhumouredly, “for ye’re far frae ——, I guess, and ye’ll hae a long pull hame.”
It was indeed getting late, and the thought of four hours on the lake in the dark, had a hurrying tendency, so pointing to the Bible and hymn-book on the shelf above the children’s bed, we bade her remember us in their evening worship, and, slipping some silver into the children’s hands, we took our leave. We had not gone many yards before we met a Highlander with a net at his back, and a basket of fish before him, and the shout of delight which in another moment burst from the cot, proved him to be, as we had supposed, the father of the group within. Before we had gone far, we heard a sonorous voice raising the evening hymn, and anon the sound of shrill and infant voices mingling with it. We could not stop to listen, but we joined in heart, and as a fresh breeze from the mountain pass brought the sweet sounds once more to our ear, we fervently exclaimed (as again they died away), in the words of their native poet:—
“May He who stills the raven’s clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, Yet, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide, But chiefly in their hearts with _grace divine_ preside.”
Such was the condition of a Highland family in the autumn of 1845. And now we are about to reverse the picture; to show our Highland family under other circumstances, and we would entreat the reader to remember that since the joyous and the grievous, the bright days and dark days, are alike of God’s appointment, it must be good for us to look upon both,—to look, to meditate, to minister, and it may be, in so doing, to learn a lesson that may be to _our_ profit as well as theirs. May God of his infinite mercy grant it, to the glory of his holy name, through Jesus Christ!
Eighteen months had passed over the Highland cottage, and in their brief course had swept away almost all that it had once contained of the appliances of domestic usefulness and comfort; for the scarcity which had been felt on the partial failure of the potato crop in 1845, had, in consequence of the _general_ failure of the following year, advanced through the successive stages of privation and destitution, till it might now truly be said in the simple, but emphatic language of Scripture, that “the famine was sore in the land,” for “_their food has been destroyed,_ and means of purchasing other food they have not.”[2]
It is about the second week in January, 1847, that we would again introduce our friends to the home of the M’Kenzies. An air of desolation now reigned around it,—all was still. There was no hum of children’s voices making glad the lonely glen; the fowls that had gathered round the cottage-door were no longer to be seen, the pig-stye was empty,[3] the stream was frost-bound.
The thatch which had been secured by birch twigs linked together in the Highland fashion, and kept down by a great stone suspended from the twisted ends, and dangling in front, was half off. The elder bush that had grown beside the shed was gone, and its hollow branches no longer creaked in the wintry blast, for when labour was scarce, and peat was three times its usual price, any thing that would serve for firing was little likely to be spared. The interior of the cottage offered a sad and striking contrast to the scene of joy and plenty it had presented before.
The table, formerly so hospitably spread for us, was gone; the meal-chest, the children’s bed, the comfortable settle, each in its turn had been parted with for food; the inner door was open, and there were the bairns, no longer fresh, rosy, full of life and vigour; they had ceased to attend the school; they had ceased to climb the overhanging rocks, and splash and dabble, like so many wild birds, in the stream that foamed beneath the ledge on which the cottage stood. Poor children! they were all lying huddled together on a mattress, with a dirty blanket over it: their old pet the grey cat curled up among the group. They were scarcely covered, for the one scanty, tattered garment which did not reach the knees, showed the deep poverty that had fallen on the parents. They were anxiously waiting for the hour when the little portion of milk which the wretched half, no, not half-fed cow, still yielded, was to be divided among them. It was now three days since they had tasted any other nourishment, and M’Kenzie and his wife began to think it would be better to sell or kill their cow, than thus to see their little ones pining away beneath the united pangs of cold and hunger. But there had been no fire upon the hearth that day; for the few peats that remained were husbanded to dress the meals that they were daily hoping might, through some providential channel, come to them. And the children awoke at night, crying with cold; and one of them sobbed, and said,—“Collie is always warm. Oh! mither, let me gang sleep wi’ Collie; for Robin and Moggie are like the frost to me.” The father spoke not! but he went to the shed and led in the poor miserable-looking cow, that staggered from weakness as it stepped over the stones at the door. He brought it to the side of the children’s bed, and, when it lay down they stretched themselves upon it, and the gentle creature, that in happier days had been caressed and often wreathed with garlands of the broom and heather by them, turned its head and fixed its large mild eye upon them, as though sensible of their sufferings, and pleased to minister to them, and for some hours suffering was forgotten in sleep.
The following morning word was brought that there was work to be had at ——, across the hills, and that, perhaps, M’Kenzie might be able to get some. He sighed heavily, but he nodded assent, and, bidding his wife get the Bible from the shelf, and beckoning to the children to come and stand around him, he read the twenty-third Psalm, and his voice became firm and clear as he said,—“I shall not want,” for he said it in David’s spirit, and he believed it in his heart, and the sense of his failing strength that had clouded his brow, gave place to the assurance of faith, as he read the promise of the Staff that is of power to support the weak. And when he had prayed that in the might of the promise he might go forth, he lifted the hymn as usual; and it was a hymn of _praise_, so that the passing stranger might still have thought it went up from light and happy hearts. And so, indeed, it did; for how “shall the righteous be made sad, whom I have not made sad? saith the Lord God.”
The morning worship over, M’Kenzie started on his long and toilsome walk. The embankment, which was the scene of labour, was full ten miles off, over moor and mountain, but he got there after two hours’ hard walking, and applied for employment. He was received, and at the end of the day was paid _one shilling_ for his toil; and he went further ere he turned towards his home, to spend his earnings in meal for his family. It was late ere he reached his cabin, his little ones had cried themselves to sleep. His wife, after watching long for his return, oft turning to her sleeping children in the sickness of hope deferred, and then again straining her eyes to look through the casement for her husband, had seated herself at the foot of the bed with her hands clasped tightly together, the indication of a strong mental effort to repress the feelings of anxious suspicion that were busy at her heart, and thus M’Kenzie found her. He shewed the bag of meal, and told her that he had no doubt of being employed at the embankment while the works were in progress; but as he spoke, his words became tremulous, his hand dropped, and he would have fallen, if his wife had not supported, and half dragged him to the bed. Reader, you have read in books of fancy and fiction, scenes of _imaginary_ faintings from _imaginary_ sources of emotion and of suffering, and, perhaps, you have wept at them; and for such _imaginary_ distresses, your tears were _enough_, nay, all too much. They will _not_ suffice here. M’Kenzie had walked ten miles to his labour. He had honestly put forth all his strength to his appointed task, he had made a circuit of six miles to get the oatmeal for his children ere he set out on his homeward path. ALL this he had done, and _he had not tasted food that day_. His wife succeeded so far in reviving him, that he raised his head and looked around, but he could not speak. She looked for a sup of milk in the earthen jar—their only remaining vessel of any kind,—but it was empty. The poor respited cow gave what she could—a scanty supply, all thin and watery! and unlike the rich abundance she had formerly yielded; still it was precious, and as Margaret saw the colour stealing over her husband’s wan face, she was thankful that Collie had been spared. If they could but manage to keep her alive still, but the skin hung in huge wrinkles over the projecting bones, and except the dry and withered bracken, fodder there was none for her.
To kindle the few smouldering peats that lay upon the hearth, and to prepare a mess of porridge for her husband, was Margaret’s next care, but M’Kenzie protested that he was abundantly refreshed already, and that he was too sleepy to wait for the cooking of the porridge. Margaret urged him, but he would not be persuaded, and they closed the day with prayer and reading, and together joined in praising Him who had made good his promise of the morning, and supplied their need,—“I shall not _want_;” and as they lay down on their heather mattress with their little ones, all sense of want was gone, and filled with the consciousness of their Heavenly Father’s presence with them, and of his love towards them, his everlasting love in Christ Jesus, they slept in peace! Reader, what would _they_ have had to sustain their fainting spirits if they had been living without God in the world?
But morning came again, and with it the cries of the little ones for bread. The elder children tried to hush them, but they had had nothing except an occasional sip of milk the day before, and their cries were only to be stopped by food. Margaret soon rose and prepared the porridge, asking God’s blessing on that which He had given. They stood round and eat by turns, beginning at the youngest save one, who was an infant at the mother’s breast. But when it came to M’Kenzie’s turn, he shook his head, and looked away. “Nae lassie, nae, I canna eat the children’s bread,” he exclaimed. But now the wife would not be refused; “And what is your strength but the children’s bread?” she replied, “ah, man! ye maun eat, or ye canna work; and neither bit nor sup shall pass _my_ lips till ye hae eaten what’s there. I’ve mair on the fire for the bairns, and you’re wanting to be awa’, for its a sair, sair bit, that ye hae to gang till your work.”
“Dinna ca’ it _sair_, lassie, and I’ll do as ye would hae me, for oh, its mony and mony a braw Highlander that looking on a family o’ hungry weans would bless God for the like, even if the wage were less;” and he eat up the porridge as he was bidden (there might be a matter of a tea-cup full).
Again the blessed book was read aloud; again he led the prayer, that was prayer indeed, for it arose from a sense of actual want, and it arose in the assurance that, through the merits of the Redeemer, that want, the temporal as well as the spiritual, would be supplied. And the thought of the mercies of yesterday quickened his faith, and gave animation to his voice as he raised it in the hymn of praise: and then he “went forth to his labour,” for that was _his_ part, and he felt strong to do it.
We will not prolong our history by recording the details of days that came and went in like manner: for about three weeks the father continued to work at the embankment, returning to his family with the fruits of his labour every evening. But day by day his strength declined, and on the fifth of February, it was two hours past midnight before he returned to his anxious wife. He found her in earnest prayer, and as he stepped over the threshold, the words, “Lord, wilt Thou leave us to perish, the mother with the little ones?” fell on his ear in accents wrung from an agonized spirit. In the intenseness of her supplication she had not heard even _his_ approach. Her head which had been flung back was suddenly bent forward, her hands relaxed somewhat of the tightness of their grasp, and the anguish seemed to have passed away as she fervently and firmly added,—“Yet not _my_ will, but _Thine_ be done.” It must be so indeed, for would our gracious God have bidden us “cast our burden upon him,” unless it had been his purpose to receive it from us?[4]
Her eye now fell upon her husband, and a strange chill crept over her as she remarked his wild and haggard look. Yes, the plague had begun! nature overtasked day by day, could hold out no longer; and though the spirit of the man had sustained his infirmities, his strength had failed at last. For some days he had been struggling with low fever, but he felt that he could struggle no more, and that the hand of death was upon him. He looked round upon his wife and children, but he remembered who had said,—“Leave thy fatherless children to Me, and let thy widows trust in Me;” and he felt that in exchanging the weak ministry of his unnerved arm for the strength of the “everlasting arms,” there was no room for lamentation.
He tried to read the chapter as usual, but his sight failed, and he lay back upon the clay floor, and never rose from it again. The fever rapidly assumed the worst form of typhus, and ere the third day closed in, Margaret M’Kenzie was a widow indeed, and desolate. We will not linger over details too painful to be needlessly dwelt upon; we will not unveil a sorrow too sacred to be exposed and dissected; but we must observe, that there is one feature in the Highland character which exercised a painful influence on the poor family in this their hour of deepest affliction. From the rareness among them of such visitations, any disorder of a contagious or epidemic kind is regarded by the Highlanders with such a degree of horror as leads them to shrink from any offices involving contact with the sufferers, and thus there was none to help; and oh, who but those who have known what it is to feel the _loneliness_ of sorrow, can realize the strong consolation that the M’Kenzies found in the assurance of the sympathy of Christ, and in the remembrance that of him in his sufferings, it is written,—“Of the people there was none with me?”
The elder boy had been sent to the nearest place to procure a coffin, and to promise the cow in payment,—it was their only remaining possession, except the heather mattress, and _that_ none would take, from dread of the fever,—and Margaret’s wedding gown, which her husband had tried to exchange for money or for food; but no one had either to give for it.
When the carpenter heard the boy’s name, he shrunk back, and bade him be gone, in a voice in which terror predominated over sympathy.