"Why did I _write_? What sin to me unknown _Dipt me in ink_, my parents' or my own?"

Blackie speaks thus of him: "Rob Donn, according to all accounts, though outwardly of such fair respectability that he attained an honour, unknown to Robert Burns, of acting as an elder of the kirk, was not always so chaste in his words as he might seem to be in his deeds; he took his plash as a poet, and not always in the clearest waters; besides, he had a terrible lash at his command, which he could wield with an effect at times that paid little respect to the bounds set in such matters by Christian charity, or even by social politeness. The consequence has been that much of the wit and humour of his pieces, however telling for its immediate purpose, has lost half of its interest by the disappearance of the persons to whom it referred. These personal allusions also import an additional difficulty into the language which he uses, and cause his productions, however belauded, to be less known amongst Highlanders generally than those of Duncan Ban and Dugald Buchanan. Severe moralists also very properly object to the undue license and occasional coa.r.s.eness of his verses."[33]

[33] Rob was at one time in the army, for every Mackay has the fighting instinct in him. (Reay is one of the few townships in the North that possess a drill-hall and a military instructor. It is impossible adequately to describe the consternation in the Mackay country at the time of our South African reverses.

Everyone was in a fury and it was felt there was urgent need for the Mackays to straighten out matters at the seat of war. It was at this time that the drill-hall was built in Reay. Many of the young men went to the front as volunteers, and if the war had lasted much longer, there would have been few Mackays left in Sutherlandshire.)

REV. MR. MILL OF DUNROSSNESS.

Before concluding the present chapter, I should like to refer briefly to a valuable and amusing book (brought under my notice in Shetland) that furnishes details of the life of Mr. Mill, minister of Dunrossness from 1742 till 1805. Mr. Mill's special talent was his unrivalled power of exorcism: he was a strenuous foe to the devil in every shape and form, and his life was one long battle with the Prince of Darkness. The latter was constantly bringing into play all manner of gins, traps, and wiles to confound the uncompromising clergyman; but, on a calm review of the evidence, one cannot but admit that the devil was far inferior in intelligence to his opponent.

On one occasion, Satan had the effrontery to come into Dunrossness Church and take his seat at the Communion Table. Mr. Mill at once recognised his life-long adversary, and began to speak in all the deep languages, and, last of all, in Gaelic, and that beat him altogether.

Satan went off like a flock of "doos" over the heads of the people, many of whom swooned. "As a permanent reminder of the hostility cherished against him by the Arch-Enemy, it was said that Mr. Mill always had the wind in his face. One day he came up to officiate at Sandwick, in the teeth, as usual, of a pretty stiff breeze. An ordinary person would naturally have expected the wind to be on his back on the return journey. But during the service the wind veered round. Mr. Mill's only comment, as he started for home, was, 'It's all he can do.' In one respect, Mr. Mill benefited by the penalty of always having the wind in his face, for on his very numerous sea-journeys he could always secure a favourable breeze _by sitting with his back to the head of the boat_."

The following additional tale from Mr. Mill's biography only brings into more striking relief the resource of the minister in all emergencies.

"One day a very respectable gentleman entered the house of a tailor in Channerwick, and ordered a suit of clothes to be made out of cloth which he brought with him. The tailor's delight at having such a fine gentleman for a customer was, however, turned into perplexity and fear as he opened up the cloth and found that the colour kept constantly changing. He at once sent for the minister and laid the matter before him. He was advised to spread a sheet on the floor and cut the cloth upon it, so that none of the clippings should be scattered about the room, and the minister said that he would be present to meet the stranger when the latter called to get the clothes. The day came, and when the stranger entered the house, Mr. Mill stepped forward to meet him. A terrible controversy ensued, and the respectable-looking gentleman was swept out of the house in a cloud of blue, sulphurous flame. It is not recorded if he took the new suit with him. A clue to his identification was furnished by his accidentally striking his foot against the door-step as he departed. The result of the collision was that a mark as of a cloven hoof was imprinted on the stone."

CHAPTER VIII.

METRICAL AND SUPPLEMENTARY.

I. Arrival of the Mail-train at a Highland Station.

II. Defoe, the Father of Journalism.

III. A Village Toper.

IV. A Reverend h.e.l.lenist.

V. Antigone.

VI. Shadows of the Manse.

VII. "My Heart's in the Highlands."

VIII. Saddell, Kintyre.

IX. Springtime in Perthshire.

X. Dr. George Macdonald's Creed.

XI. Abbotsford.

XII. Carlyle.

XIII. Sh.e.l.ley.

XIV. Picture in an Inn.

XV. Rain-storm at Loch Awe.

XVI. Kinlochewe.

XVII. General Wade.

XVIII. Sound of Raasay in December.

XIX. Les Neiges d' Antan.

XX. The Islands of the Ness.

XXI. American Tourist Loquitur.

XXII. The Miners.

XXIII. In a Country Graveyard.

XXIV. No Place like Home.

I.

ARRIVAL OF THE MAIL-TRAIN AT A HIGHLAND STATION.

"_Hark! 'tis the tw.a.n.ging horn._" So Cowper sang Of the slow post-boy by the flooded Ouse; In different fashion now the great world's news Goes to each nook of Britain. The harangue Of politician; great events that hang In Fortune's hand, with magic speed diffuse From London's centre to the furthest Lews, Their tingling rumour and resounding clang.

Daily along yon track of curving steels Comes to this Highland clachan, Watt's machine, Rolling in triumph on its iron wheels, And bringing letter, journal, magazine, To kilted Celts with collies at their heels And frivolous tourists from the putting-green.

II.

DEFOE[34]

(FATHER OF JOURNALISM).

Father of journalists! ill.u.s.trious liar!

Untiring wielder of the nimblest quill That ever shed the stanchless inky rill Upon the virgin whiteness of the quire.

What full and varied stores of gold and mire, Magnificence and squalor, good and ill, Prayers, curses, loyalty and treason fill Thy books! But that which children most admire Of all thy hundred volumes, is the one Fated for ever more to charm mankind From the far Orient to the Setting Sun.

Prompt-witted Daniel! thou has left behind Upon the Sands of Time, distinctly traced, One footmark that can never be effaced.

[34] Let me here pay a tribute to the marked excellence and literary skill of the newspapers of provincial Scotland. These are very numerous--even Ailsa Craig has a sheet of its own, _The Ailsa Craig Banner_.

III.

A VILLAGE TOPER.

John loved strong waters and ne'er stirred his feet Abroad in leafy spring or summer's heat, Autumnal breeze or winter's rimy chill, Unsolaced by the nectar of the still.

Spirits came always kindly to his lips, And time he measured not by hours but "nips."

Teetotalers to him were curse and gall, Grim Banquos at the world's wide festival, Men, whom a weird and fate-ordained bale, Had smitten with the hate of cakes and ale, A soda-water, syphon-squirting crew, Guilty of treason to the revenue: Their lurid language and their unctuous warnings, Their moral-pointings and their tale-adornings, And, worst of all, their shameful _waste of ink_ In signing pledges to abstain from drink, Proved them a witless and a churlish band, Unfit to dwell in any Christian land.

IV.

A REVEREND h.e.l.lENIST.

In that old ivied manse exists A scholar, wrinkled, bent, and gray, His student lamp gleams through the mists And twinkles on till break of day.

This sage is wedded to his books, And Sultan-like his harem's full, He dotes upon them in their nooks With love and joy that never cool.

No wonder that his back is bent, Or that his eye has mystic glows, He pores on pages redolent Of love and love's undying rose.

No earthly maiden, fresh and sweet, Could please his fancy half so well As a Greek nymph with twinkling feet Skipping in some Arcadian dell.

V.

ANTIGONE