The men of the isles are more faithful than the
women, and retain their suit of sonsy dark blue home-spun and broad
blue-bonnet. The kilt never seems to have found favour amongst them.
Happily the number of black coats and hats is very limited, and you
see at a glance that you are surrounded by a race of hardworking
fishers and shepherds.
The marvel is to see such families of well
brushed-up lads and lassies—so many, and so well grown—and then to
look at the tiny bothy whose roof is home, not to these only, but
probably to other sons and daughters as well, who have gone to earn
their bread on the mainland, or to establish far more prosperous homes
in distant lands beyond the seas, but whose hearts are so warm to the
old home, and to those that gather round its hearth, that no new ties
will ever fill its place. A steadfast people in truth, to whom the
home of childhood, how homely soever, will be the golden milestone
from which to date each stage of life. And nowhere are the little ones
more deeply cared for, and more heartily welcomed. Poor though the
hearth may be, that house is reckoned poorest where the quiver is
empty, for the Highlanders say that a home without the voices of
children is dreary as a farm without sheep or kye.
The bothies are all much
alike; there are generally two rooms: the outer division is the byre
for the cattle. It is not cleaned out very often, and is not
altogether a pleasant entrance-hall!
Most houses have a double
wall of rough unhewn stone, perhaps five or six feet thick, the
interstices being crammed with heather and turf. On the inner side of
this wall rests the roof, which consequently acts as a conduit to
convey all the rain that falls, right into the middle of the double
wall, which accordingly is always damp. Hence the necessity of
sleeping in box-beds, which form a sort of wooden lining for the
sleeping corner. Such beds are stuffy, and very suggestive of the
probable presence of noxious insects, but the wooden backs, following
the angle of the roof, protect the sleepers from some draughts and
possible rain-drip, and the bedding looks warm, and as clean as can be
expected.
A well-to-do house probably has a window at the
end where the family live. It cannot, however, be very efficient in
the way of admitting light, since it is merely a hole from twelve to
eighteen inches square, and only partially glazed, about half the
space being filled up with turf. A misty gleam, however, streams
through the opening, by which the smoke ought to escape, but the
interior is chiefly dependent for light on the ever-open doorway. To
enable the door thus to do double work, it is generally made in two
halves, the lower half being frequently closed, while the upper half
stands open.
If you approach such a dwelling, a kindly voice
will assuredly bid you welcome in the Gaelic tongue (for they "have no
English"), and as you stoop to enter the low doorway, you become aware
that the peat-reek which saturates the thatch, likewise fills the
interior of the house with a dense blue cloud, stinging and choking to
unaccustomed eyes and lungs. Then you perceive that half of the house
is devoted to the cattle—is, in fact, the byre, and a very dirty byre
to boot. Here stand the cow and her calf, or maybe a goat or two, kept
for milking.
Possibly a rough pony is grazing near, with his
fore-legs hobbled to prevent his straying. The pig, should there be
one, likewise takes care of itself and roams about outside, for that
household companion of the Irish Celt is not a welcome inmate here.
Indeed this is gintleman who pays the rint in the Emerald Isle (or
rather who did so in bygone days) is by no means a common possession
in these Scottish Isles, where the domestic pig has ever been held in
abhorrence well-nigh as deep-seated as among the Hebrews.
A man of the true old type
would sooner have starved than have eaten pork or pig's flesh in any
form. Now the old prejudice is so far modified that a certain number
of "advanced" Celts tolerate the unclean animal as a marketable
article; but they are still in a minority, as may be judged from the
fact that in the statistics of the Isle of Lewis we find that four
thousand families only own one hundred and fifty pigs amongst them
all. Another
departure from old tradition is shown by the presence of poultry, the
use of which, for food, would have been as repugnant to an ancient
Celt as would have been that of a goose or a hare.
Now, however, the "croose
tappit hen" is in high favour, and the gude-wife's poultry share with
the cat and her kittens, and the handsome Collie dogs, the privilege
and honours of the inner chamber. The mother-hen and her chickens seek
for crumbs of oat-cake that may have been dropped by the bairns on the
earthen floor, while the venerable cock and the other members of bis
family roost on a well-blackened rafter, rejoicing in the warm smoke.
So also apparently does the kindly-looking old
crone in the large clean white cap, bound round her head with a rusty
black ribbon, who bends over the peat fire, turning the well-browned
oat-cakes on the flat iron girdle which hangs from a heavy chain,
suspended from the open chimney, down which streams a ray of light
which perchance glances on the blue bonnet and silvery hair of the old
grandfather, who sits in the corner quietly knitting his stout blue
stockings, and perhaps indulging in a pipe at the same time. A tidy
woman, dressed, like all the family, in thick warm homespun, is
spinning at her wheel,—the most picturesque of all occupations, and
the most soothing of sounds. Possibly the home also owns a loom, in
which she can weave the yarn of her own spinning, and so indeed clothe
her household in the work of her own hands.
Probably the baby is in a
rough wooden cradle at her side, the bigger bairns being away at the
school; and wonderful it is how the baby intellect survives the
terrible shocks of such rocking as is administered by the maternal
foot, working in sympathy with the busy hand. Near the fire are a heap
of peats, drying for future use, and perhaps some tarry wool, and a
coil of rope, and fishing-nets, proving that here farming and fishing
are combined professions.
Unfortunately all homes are
not so well provided. Here are a few extracts from evidence given in
the north of Skye.
"There are, on our township, double the number
of tenants that I have seen upon it, and the hill pasture was taken
from us. We were ordered not to keep a single sheep when the pasture
was taken. We were told we would have to dispense with our sheep, or
give up our holdings. The sheep were sold at 6*. a head. We were for
several years without sheep, after which the proprietor gave us
liberty to keep five or six. The few we now have are spoiling our
townships for want of pasture. The want of hill grazing is very much
felt. It prevents us from keeping some sheep. The remit of the
prevention is that many of us have no better bed-clothes than old
bags, formerly used in conveying whelks to Glasgow.
"Some of the people in our
township have no land or sheep, and are so poor that they are glad of
a cast-off oilskin. Sometimes when a poor man gets a good meal-bag he
converts it into underclothing.
"We have spinning-wheels yet
A man who lived near me died at the age of one hundred and five, and
he never wore anything but spun clothes made by his wife and daughter.
We are now clothed with south country clothing. In this respect things
are very different from what they used to be. There are distaffs to be
seen now. Those who have hill pasture with sheep upon it yet have
clothing made with the wool of their own sheep. This cloth costs not
more than 18d. a yard. The same kind of stuff costs 4s. 6d. a yard if
bought in the shops.
"The women themselves get the dye stuffs from
the rocks. They can get, perhaps, nine or ten different colours of
cloth with the dye stuns they make themselves. They dye with peat
soot, lichen, heather tops, and tea, but tea is too dear a commodity
to dye much with. When we come back from the south country, we,
perhaps, buy a stone of wool to be worked up.
A "merchant" giving his
evidence says: "The people are buying less of some sorts of goods, but
more meal. They are more deeply in debt to me than ever. I know the
people are getting poorer, and that there are families in want of
clothing and bed-clothes. The people were in the habit of making their
own blankets of their own wool. Many of them have no blankets. Perhaps
they will have bags over than at night"
A few plates and bowls,
spoons and wooden porringers, stand on the rude dresser; a rickety
table, a few stools and benches (all probably made of worm-eaten
driftwood), complete the furniture, always excepting the hist, or
seaman's chest, which contains all the Sunday garments of the family,
and perhaps, too, the carefully-treasured winding-sheets, prepared by
the good-wife for herself and her husband against the day when they
will surely be required—a day that is often in their thoughts, not as
the end of life, but merely as an incident in the journey that will
take them safely to the only Land that is more to be desired than even
their own dear Western Isles—the only Home that could be dearer than
this, in which they have dwelt so lovingly ever since they can
remember, and where most likely their ancestors for many generations
have lived and died.
Many of these houses are most picturesque. In
old age the thatch acquires a canopy of gold and brown velvety moss,
and is perhaps also adorned with so rich a crop of grass as is
positively valuable to the thrifty gude-wife, who, mounting on the
roof with her rusty sickle, carefully cuts it all for her cow, should
she be so fortunate as to possess one.
The roof is tied on with a perfect net-work of
straw or heather ropes, and weighted by large stones, to resist the
frightful gusts of wind, which would carry off any ordinary cottage
roof. A wealthy man, and one who cares about trifles, may perhaps put
up an old herring-barrel to act as a chimney, but, as a general rule,
there is none, and the blue smoke finds its way out where it can, or
settles on the brown rafters, encrusting the hanging cobwebs with
thick peat-reek, which is a much more romantic decoration than our
common domestic soot! As years wear on, even oft-repeated patching
will not keep the decaying roof water-tight, and in the heavy rains
every weak corner is betrayed by a ceaseless drip of diluted soot,
establishing black puddles on the earthen floor, or wherever it may
chance to fall. When the roof has become so thoroughly saturated with
this rich brown grease that a new thatch becomes necessary, the old
one is broken up, and becomes very valuable as manure fur the little
crofts (though some say that soot thus applied merely stimulates, but
eventually deteriorates the land).
Owing to the great
difficulty in obtaining timber, the real value of the house lies in
its rafters; these are for the most part the gift of the sea ;
sometimes the masts of some poor ship, whose crew lie deep beneath the
waters; oftener some grand tree torn up by the mighty tempests that
months before raged over the western forests; thence floated by
rushing torrents to the deep sea, to become the sport of the waves,
and the home of strange creatures, animate and inanimate—barnacles and
limpets and many-coloured weeds, which the builder has not thought it
worth while to scrape off, so that when, after a few months, they have
acquired the general rich brown hue of all within the house, they
might very well pass muster as fine old oak carving.
As to the roots and
branches, you must not fancy anything so precious is used for
firewood; each little chip is turned to some good account; and the man
who secures a good log of driftwood has found a prize indeed. Should
he change his home from one village to another, he claims compensation
from his successor for the roof timber, which is probably his most
valuable possession. Hence when a young couple are courting, their
wooing and cooing is accompanied by a most serious search for wood,
sticks, straw, and moss, wherewith to build and thatch their future
nest.
This lack of timber is one of the great
grievances of the lairds, some of whom keep up a ceaseless struggle
with nature, striving to make wood grow where she has determined to
have none. [All of which sound rather romantic, in the Robinson Crusoe
style. The romance however fades considerably, when we face the
unpoetic details of disputes between crofters and factors concerning
the gathering of shell-fish,— the proclamations of legal penalties to
be enacted against any person found carrying away drift-wood from the
shore,—indignant gamekeepers driving off the women who venture to pull
heather for thatch or ropes from their own pastures, the number of
days' work claimed by the large farmers for permission to cut rushes
from the sand-hills, or sea-ware from the rocks.] It is vain to
suggest that these bare moors are, at least in this present era, the
true character of the country, and that they might as well try to
change' an aquiline nose into a Roman one. The struggle still goes on,
and good gold is sunk in hopeless plantations and great stone walls to
protect them from the cutting sea blasts. By dint of these, the young
trees are so far protected that they do get a fair start, but alas for
the proud day when they attempt to over-top that kindly shelter! Very
few days will pass before they are scorched and burnt up, as if by a
furnace; and it seems pretty clear that except in a few sheltered
nooks, such as Armadale, Dunvegan, and Greshernish, trees will not
grow.
This is the more remarkable, as there are traces
in different parts of the Hebrides of the comparative abundance of
timber in olden days, a fact to which Dean Munro alludes when, writing
in a.d. 1594, he speaks of Pabba (now a low grassy island lying off
Broadford), as being "full of wodes, and a main shelter for thieves
and cut-throats." With respect to more ancient forests, very extensive
tracts exist where stems, roots, and branches of large trees, are
constantly dug up in the peat moss, remains both of hardwood and of
pine, the latter being invaluable as a substitute for candles, from
the clear light of its resinous wood; and many a cosy home-group
gathers round the ingle neuk, listening to stories of the old days,
while one, learned in legends of the past, tells how the Norwegians
swept these coasts, and burnt all the old forests, leaving traces of
their devastations even to this day, in the charred and blackened
timber.
In many instances, fine large trunks have been
found under the present sea-level, covered with sea-weed and shells, a
striking proof of the gradual encroachments of the ocean in certain
districts. It is said that whole tracts of land, till recently under
cultivation, have disappeared—or are now so covered with sand, as to
be utterly worthless—very much in the same way as a great portion of
the "Laich of Moray" was submerged by those fearful inundations at the
close of the eleventh century, when, says Boethius, "the lands of
Godowine, near the mouth of the Thames, and likewise the land of Moray
on the east coast of Scotland, together with many villages, castles,
towns, and extensive woods both in England and Scotland, were
overwhelmed by the sea, and the labours of men laid waste by the
discharge of sand from the sea."
One curious inference drawn
from the class of timber which formerly flourished in these islands
is, that a very marvellous change in climate must have taken place in
comparatively recent ages. This seems to corroborate certain
statistical accounts of the temperature which have been preserved at
Kilwinning, in Ayrshire, where, it is affirmed, that so great was the
heat in the month of May, that farmers had to leave off ploughing at 8
a.m., and could not resume work before 4 p.m. The same account states
that the harvest was finished in August—a very different story from
our average nowadays, when a harvest-home in September marks a very
satisfactory autumn; while, in too many instances, a very much later
date might be given.
In the Hebrides the cereal crops are always a
matter of risk, owing to the extreme probability of prolonged autumnal
rains; and it is only too common to see the crops at the end of the
season cut green, and only fit for fodder. In truth, the patience and
perseverance of the poor cotters, who continue year after year to toil
in such unprofitable soil, are qualities which may well call forth bur
wondering admiration.
This particular district of Kilmuir, has the
happy distinction of having from time immemorial been known as the
best corn-producing portion of the Isle—"The granary of Skye." A
hundred years ago Pennant described Uig as "laughing with corn," in
contradistinction to other districts which he described as black and
pathless bogs. To what extent this superiority may rise I know not,
but, in a general way, the crofters on these poor lands never look for
a return exceeding three times the quantity planted—many only reap one
and a half times what they sow! (whereas on really good soil the
farmer may garner twelve times the amount of seed sown).
So poor are the harvests of
the land, throughout the Western Isles generally, that they can at
best only supplement those of the sea, and these vary greatly from
year to year. So essential to these small crofters is this combination
of toils by sea and land, that out of the 1780 occupants of land in
Skye, there are not more than sixty who are not also fishermen. This
double profession is not altogether advantageous, however, as most of
the work is crowded into the summer, and one labour interferes with
the other. Necessary care for the land detains the men, so that they
start late for the fishery; and then, again, they often have to leave
the fishing-ground too soon, lest their agricultural work should
suffer, and so they miss the finest shoals, which perhaps come just
after they have left. Thus great labour is often expended for small
profit.
Nevertheless almost every able-bodied man on the
Isles counts on making his principal income by the summer
herring-fishing, the profits on which (should there be any) afford his
only margin of comfort for the year. For it is a rare season in which
the sterile soil yields a sufficiency of grain for the requirements of
the people, who are always obliged to buy meal, and are dependent on
the sale of their fish to enable them to obtain their simple fare of
oat-cake and porridge.
Any failure in these supplies at once results in
positive distress. There is no cutting down of luxuries,—it is the
necessaries of life that fail, and the whole population is at once
plunged into absolute want. Never have the Isles experienced a more
grievous succession of losses than those of 1882, which have resulted
in such widespread misery that those dwelling in its midst, almost
despair of coping with it. Indeed it would be difficult to picture a
condition of more utter wretchedness than that in which the islanders
are now plunged, utterly worsted in the strife with the adverse forces
of nature.
The majority do not say much, being well-trained
to suffer in silence, and having an amazing power of endurance in
bearing troubles which they believe to be ordained by God. No
Mahommedan submitting to the irresistible will of Allah can show more
fortitude than do these simple Christian folk. "Our people," says one
writing on their behalf, "are not over-ready to complain."
Norman MacLeod has recorded
how, in a year of terrible destitution in the Highlands, he was
present at the first distribution of meal in a remote district. A
party of poor old women approached, their clothes patched and
repatched, but very clean. They had come from a glen far inland to
receive a dole of meal. Never before had they sought alms, and sorely
did they shrink from approaching the Committee. At last they deputed
one woman to go forward as their representative, and as she advanced
they hid their faces in their tattered plaids. When she drew near she
could not find words in which to tell her tale, but she bared her
right arm, reduced by starvation to a mere skeleton, and stretching it
towards the Committee, burst into tears, and her bitter sobs told
their own tale of anguish.
That scene might be enacted
again this day in a thousand districts in the Highlands and Isles,
where nothing approaching to the present distress has been experienced
during the last thirty years. It has been rightly said, that there
could be no surer test of dire need than that these people should so
far conquer their proverbial "Highland pride" as even now to reveal
the depths of their poverty.
The tale of woe of 1882
practically commenced in the previous year, when a wild storm
destroyed many of the boats. Local subscriptions, however, went far
towards covering this loss—and the men went off in high hope to the
herring fishery on the East coast. It proved an absolute failure, and
at the close of the season, many crews returned home penniless, having
had to borrow necessary funds from the fish-curers. Later in the
season, the ling fishery, to which they looked for the recovery of
some of their losses, proved an absolute blank. Thus the islanders
were left entirely dependent on the return of their scanty crops. But
here again they found that they had spent their strength for nought,
and all their toil had been in vain.
First the potato crop proved
an utter failure. As the summer wore on, the blackening shaws
grievously suggested the approach of the too familiar blight. Even
where the best seed had been planted in the best soil, the result was
alike disheartening. In place of large mealy potatoes, the luckless
planters gathered a small crop of worthless watery roots, smaller than
walnuts. One man tells how he has only raised five barrels from the
very same ground which generally yields thirty barrels. Another
planted eight and a half barrels of seed potatoes and only raised two
and a half. Others proved their crops so hopeless, that it was
literally not worth the exertion of turning the ground to seek for the
few half-diseased roots that might have been obtained.
Mr. Mackay, Chamberlain for
Lewis, stated that in one parish he set two men to dig, in order to
raise as many potatoes as possible, and all they were able to get,
after working from ten in the morning till four o'clock in the
afternoon, was about a basketful.
The testimony of the clergy writing from the
neighbourhood of Stornaway, and from the district of Barvas, was
heart-rending. They told of the sick and suffering, of feeble women
and aged men who, in the extremity of illness, possessed only a few
small diseased potatoes. They told of houses in which parents watched
tenderly by dying children, but their bitter lamentations were not for
the dying, but for the living children who were well-nigh starving.
The teachers in the schools state that a large proportion of children
in attendance, many of whom have travelled long distances from their
homes, have actually done so without a morning meal of any sort. And
they themselves have little or nothing to give. The parish ministers
say truly that these are people who are not inclined to cry out for a
small matter—nothing short of extreme need would have induced them to
apply for aid.
But what can men do in the face of starvation?
As long as there was the prospect of a tolerable grain-crop, they kept
up a brave heart—though well, aware how scanty must be the supply,
with neither potatoes nor herring to look to. Still, the harvest
promised fair, and ripened so well that by the end of September all
was cut, and ready for carrying. But on the night of the 1st October a
terrible gale swept over the land, to the utter destruction of both
grain and hay crops. The small stooks still stood ungarnered in the
fields, all ready for stacking, when the tremendous storm burst upon
the unsheltered shores, and carried them away as though they had been
so many feathers. Some were carried miles inland, and scattered over
the hill-sides; some were scattered along the sea-beach, others
carried far out to sea.
When the fury of the gale subsided, all that
remained of this— the last resource of the people—the produce of their
year's toil— was some widely-scattered damaged straw, with all the
grain beaten out of it. One man reports that on the morning of the
gale he owned three hundred stooks of barley; of these, he was only
able to save thirty. Another, who is generally able to make seven
bolls of barley-mealy has this year failed to make one pound.
From every corner of the Isles, comes the same
tale of distress, only varying a little in degree. Here is the report
of a fairly typical village in the parish of Duirinish, in Skye. It
contains thirty-seven houses, with a population of 189 persons. From
this village about sixty men went to the herring fishing on the East
coast, but the whole result was only twenty-one barrels, worth about
£60, to be divided among the whole community—a poor reward for the
long and arduous toil involved.
The crofters of this
township planted 171 bolls of potatoes, but in the autumn they lifted
only 215 bolls. In seed time they sowed 156 bolls of oats, but in the
harvest they garnered only 136 ! So that on the grain crop all their
toil resulted in dead loss.
The townships own twenty-three cows. In the
spring of 1883 these were yielding only eleven quarts of milk a
day—not a very abundant supply for 189 porridge-consuming men, women,
and children!
Their sole remaining source of revenue was from
their hens, which yielded an average of sixty-two eggs per diem.
To add to the wretchedness
of their destitution, they had to endure the bitter cold of a
prolonged winter, beside a dreary, almost tireless hearth, for the
long summer rains which reduced the hay to a sodden pulp, prevented
the newly-cut peats from drying. So they remained like heavy wet
bricks, piled on the peat moss, and there in some districts they still
lay, saturated,—when the wild October gale came and whirled them back
into the peat-bogs whence they had been cut with so much labour.
One glimmer of hope remained
in the prospect of the winter haddock-fishing, which in some years
proves fairly lucrative. Last year, however, it proved an absolute
failure, and for the third time in one year, the poor disheartened
fellows returned to their sad homes, with empty boats, to face long
months, during which no alleviation could be hoped for. So in the
spring of 1883, many thousands of persons, in every part of the
North-western Islands and Highlands, stood in absolute need of
everything,—dependent on the charity of the more fortunate dwellers on
the mainland for actual daily bread, as well as for seed-corn and
seed-potatoes for the future.
This is no story of want
resulting from improvidence, for the people are careful and frugal,
and although very slow in their movements, and occasionally making
matters worse than they need be, by procrastination, or by the
listlessness born of vainly fighting against circumstances, to say
nothing of the depression produced by constant under-feeding, it is
certainly unjust to call them idle — many are hard-working. "A
patient, industrious, God-fearing people " is the description given of
them by those who know them best; and their life in most prosperous
times would seem to us to be one of exceeding hardship—a life in which
luxury is an altogether unknown term, and a bare subsistence is hardly
wrung, by ceaseless toil, from the unfertile land and stormy waves. |