There is not
much ’doing in the village on the loch to-day. The water
shines serene for the shore hills to use as a mirror, and
cats and men bask on its malodorous margin. Until yesterday,
for a week there was something of the excitement of real
methodical industry in the place. A barque, with all sails
set, had crept in from the sea and dropped anchor under the
lee of the humpy little peninsula which makes from the
mainland as if it had meant to cut the loch in two but had
suddenly decided that it was not worth while. Coal for the
winter was in that barque, and from the minister of the
manse downwards in the scale of importance every householder
with pence to spare purchased coal. The inn took small
cart-loads of it. The stalwart village Macs, who seem so
wasted on the effortless daily round of their lives, dragged
wheelbarrows over the shingle, achieving several journeys in
the day, pausing between them to sit on the handles of their
barrows, re-light their pipes, and talk. Their haggard wives
(poor ill-fed souls), instead of climbing on to the moor
with creels for peats, established in the wet mud and sand a
trail of bare foot-prints, for the tide later to wash out;
they went to and fro without pause.
Each tide
which floated the barque showed it higher and higher in the
gull-flecked water. Now it is buoyant, almost as a cork, and
waits for a wind to depart; and the village is normal again.
The men discuss the chance of a rousing breeze from the west
which shall flush the loch with many sea-trout in addition
to salt-water, and give them a profitable night with the
nets. They also discuss the laird, not affectionately. When
he comes north next week with his fine Southron friends, to
shoot, fish, and enjoy himself as lairds seem born to do
(and for little else in the village opinion), will he, as a
year ago, make a disagreeable fuss about the taking of these
sea-trout which the village sends
off
stealthily in boxes to the little port eight miles away,
thence to be caught up by a steamer and so to “Glesca
hersel”? Such journeying compares favourably with the feats
of transport a hundred years ago, when the fresh salmon were
despatched on horseback from Gairloch to the Moray Firth (a
two days’ jog), there boiled, and sent on thus for London’s
eating. Locally, the laird’s water-bailifis have been slack
at repression these many months. Ever since, in March,
Tammas Macrea was shot by one of them in the stomach,
feeling round the loch has been of the smouldering dangerous
kind. If Tammas’s stomach hadn’t been a wonderful one, and
the catch of salmon that night abundantly consoling, he
would have died of the bullet. The doctor himself says so,
yet has advised Tammas never to risk a second such accident.
But Tammas is related by blood-ties to half the village and
his wound is a personal airair with two score other manly
Macreas and some Mackenzies to boot; and the water-bailifis
have had it put to them very straight that they will not die
in their beds if there is any more shooting. Hence they wink
discreetly for a season at the nightly water excursions with
nets. The winkers look sour and fierce enough in the
daytime, yet have next to nothing to say to the robbers (so
they term them) whether in warning or defiance. The robbers
themselves smile and do not mind their looks. If the keepers
refrain from more deeds, they may be forgiven even that shot
at and into Tammas Macrea. The laird, however, is another
matter. Depend upon it, he will not like to find his river
practically void of the sea-trout and salmon he is coming
north to capture, and so intestine war may soon arise.
Meantime,
under the golden sunshine and the blue beauty of the scene,
the village stalwarts sit and smoke and gossip while their
wives work. A minister of Lochgillean many years ago, in
reporting upon the social and fiscal state of his flock,
declared that “idleness was almost the only comfort they
enjoyed.” One might say the same of these villagers, with
the substantial addition of magnificent if not florid
health, and sundry grievances whose removal would put their
tongues at a loss.
They do not
see many visitors here, a fact which explains their marked
curiosity about the few who come. Now and then a vagrant
young gentleman arrives at the inn, for the fishing, but the
tendency is for him to hurry elsewhere after scornfully
staring at the bare legs and thatched huts round about him.
The fishing is indifferent and the village smells are
strong. The inn is an ancient house flanked by mean and
mouldy cots which let loose many children, who gape at the
stranger and follow him about with whispered remarks,
critical and admiring. The schoolmaster, a handsome
whiskered man, fully mindful of his university education of
thirty years ago, does his best on these occasions to divert
the ruder instincts of his flock. It is excellent to see him
first sweep off his hat in too courteous salutation of die
tourist and then break into Gaelic denunciations of the
youngsters. These fly smiling before him, the more
intelligent of the boys, like enough, in the direction of
the dominie’s own snug nest apart from the village, his
absence from which gives them at least a chance of raiding
the raspberries, currants, and green embryonic apples of his
garden ; others, if the day be warm, to snatch a dip in the
loch, with the lassies sitting afar off on land in
respectful envy of man’s enterprise. On very hot days it is
no uncommon thing to come upon a small regiment of the boys
in the uniform of Adam marching up the road (the school is
at the end of the village) with sticks on their shoulders
for muskets, chanting a warrior’s song while the lassies
clap their hands to the sho.. The dominie, good easy man,
sees nothing reprehensible in some sport. He even condones
the occasional spoiling of his garden when this is not
carried out under his very eyes. “They’ve all their troubles
before them,” he says on this subject, “and hunger's a
harder master than I have any wish to be, poor laddies. Ay,
and I was one myself once, yes, indeed.”
The laird,
who comes north only for the killing of stags, grouse, and
fish, knows little about the village’s battle for even the
first necessaries of existence. He is an Englishman, like so
many lairds nowadays, and does not understand the
Celtic-Norse temperament which seems to compel these people
to half-starve at home rather than go boldly into the world
and earn man’s wages elsewhere. So the minister says, and
the dominie. The minister dines once a year with his
lairdship in the grouse month, and then edges in sympathetic
words about rents and advisable concessions to the needy.
Something generous always ensues, but the laird’s impatience
with the foolishness of people who seem wilfully blind to
the world’s opportunities is just as constant And there is
always also that irritant of what he reasonably enough terms
the poaching of his waters. What is he to make of
God-fearing rascals who plot to take his salmon and
sea-trout even while they stride from the chapel door in
their Sabbath black, with the minister’s last prayer (a long
and eloquent one for certain) still echoing in their ears?
It irritates him still more that they do not get decently
out of the way of his motor-car, (themselves, their
womenfolk, and their poultry) when he toots down that street
of hovels fronting the loch. Nor do they bend their strong
lazy heads to him, nor doff their bonnets, with anything
like the air of inevitability which he has perhaps the right
to expect from them. He is a somewhat new laird, and has not
taken pains to study the Highland character. The remark may
indeed be hazarded that in these matters he is on a par with
Mr. Creevey’s friend Western, who confessed that he knew as
little of history, even of his own country, “as any
gentleman need do.” There are lairds and lairds, and he
belongs rather to the numerous body between the two
categories.
The poverty
in the village is very genuine. They do not beg, save in the
dumb appeal of their pinched and wrinkled faces, which are
yet consistent with health and energy. Their pride and lack
of practice in the art deter them. They leave this to the
shameless vagabond tinkers who set their wigwams in the
woods lower down the loch side and come whining softly at
the stranger with outstretched hands, and later ask even the
cottars for one or two of the dried cuddies which fringe
their thatch. But anything they can earn on a fair pretext
is a Godsend to them. The other clay, for example, I was
followed a long mile by a meek old woman with enormous feet
who wondered if I might be needing a pair of home-spun
stockings. That was how she expressed it, reflectively,
while she stroked the grey hairs on her chin and viewed the
quiet design of the hose I chanced to be wearing. Her
husband, a joiner as much or little as anything else, had,
she said, a week ago conceived just that notion: “Maybe the
gentleman could do with a .pair of stockings, or some yards
of cloth.” Since then she had waited her opportunity, and
now she had summoned up courage to stalk me to a standstill.
They were astonishing stockings when they came, a pattern of
sunsets and rainbows on a green ground; but the comfort in
the old lady’s eyes as she took the money was some
compensation for their impossible garishness. She confessed,
when coaxed, that she was in debt for meal to the grocer,
like everyone else: “But I’ll be easier in my mind the noo,”
she added. It is in this village by the loch just a little
as it was throughout Scotland in 1476, when an Act of
Parliament ran in preamble, “Because victuals are right
scant within the country and the most supportation that the
Realm has is by strangers of diverse nations that bring
victuals, &c., &c.” The supportation of strangers does not
work here so directly as amid the fancy landscapes of the
Trossachs and on the main touring-routes; but it works, as
witness the alien laird and the alien integers who come to
the inn and go thence holding their noses after paying their
dues.
Of course not
more than a particle or so of the old das feeling now
survives even in this remote village. Three hundred years
ago it was a typical little barrack of filibusters, all
ready at a word to follow the local chieftain anywhere. A
few miles south of the other side of the loch lay the hill
country of their dearly-beloved enemy and nearest neighbour
dan, with sea-loch of their own from which boats sailed
forth and round into our loch to fight for fighting’s sake,
a compliment which ms promptly requited when the weather and
want of other engagements permitted. Tradition tells of the
bloodshed in these bouts. At one time the largest galley of
the other clan had tile ill-luck to get pinned on a rock at
the mouth of our loch, fid more than threescore cursing and
fully armed warriors in it Then did our men swarm round that
hapless shipload of their foes and enjoy themselves. They
picked them off at their leisure, either on the rock itself
or in the water, with much ungallant abuse of their victims
and their victims’ ancestry. They were not so civilised here
as in the Glenorchy lands farther south, whose lord in that
same century commanded all his householders to furnish
themselves with the preposterous and burdensome luxury of a
kail-yard for red kail, white, kail, and onions. The king’s
warrant was then something to smile at on this loch-side.
Who was the king, pray, unless their own great man gave him
a certificate of character ? Their own great man was idol
and Providence in one. Blood of their blood, they lived for
him and on him, with merely casual appeals to the sea for
its herrings and the land for a sufficiency of meal, with
mutton, beef, and venison when j their lord willed, or the
fortunes of war favoured.
And now the
descendants of these men exist here like the stranded relics
of an old time. The intermediate centuries have given them
schools, vaccination, and a freedom from dependence which
even yet they do not know what to do with. It is dinned into
their unwilling ears by kinsfolk in half a dozen colonies
and the manufacturing towns of the south that they ought to
be doing better for themselves, but they seem to receive the
information only with puckered lips and doubts. They are so
pledged to the shopkeeper for flour, sugar, and sundries
that they are morally bound to the soil on the loch-side.
With their sons it is different. These make their way on to
one or other of the world’s highroads, and succeed or fail
as may hap. There is the blacksmith, with one lad a doctor
in London, another an engineer in Glasgow, a third thriving
in New Zealand, and a fourth who has just sent home from
British Columbia a nugget of gold which his old father has
paraded up and down the village this week past with a high
white head. Only the other day one of these Glasgow
immigrants from the loch-side came home with distressing
abruptness. He was the sole son of his mother, a mutched old
lady with a wrinkled yellow face, and went south to keep the
home alive upon his Glasgow earnings. Suddenly he fell from
a ladder and broke his neck, and four days later, in long
procession, the village escorted his white coffin with the
cheap gilding on it to the churchyard alongside the manse.
He had left money for just this journey if the fate befell
him, and his tottering old mother welcomed his body as the
last good thing she could now expect from life. This much
only of the old dan spirit remains in the village; its
exiles determine to rest after death with their forefathers
and not amid the nameless crowds of a town.
One day the
handsomest and most daring of the fishermen gave me a call
with a brace of fine sea-trout which he sought to sell.
There was policy in his visit, as well as commerce and
courtesy. He is the afore-mentioned Tammas Macrea’s own
brother-in-law and dedared champion against the
water-bailiffs, whom he has challenged in the good old style
to come between him and what he considers his rightful prey
in the harvest of the sea. He it is who arranges for the
disposal of the packed salmon and trout when these make
bulk, and many village homes look' to him for their
maintenance. A superb physical specimen is he, with the eyes
of an eagle under his black hair and dark blue bonnet. He
had some questions to ask when our transaction was
concluded. Begging to be excused for his inquisitiveness, he
desired to know about my politics. Was I by chance a
Radical? It was just a little pathetic, however, to come at
his interpretation of that forceful word. He knew and cared
next to nothing about the programme of Westminster’s
representative Radicals ; all he saw in the word was its
battle cry for men like himself and his brother freebooters,
who retain or have acquired the simple belief that it is not
just for lairds and the law to say, “Thou shalt not take
white fish from the sea.” He was pardonably anxious moreover
that I should not inform the laird or the considerable
trafficking in these same white fish which went on in the
village. His arguments were of course plausible, and he was
extremely picturesque in the fine heat with which he
elaborated them. He regarded lairds as litde better than
tyrants. Who but this laird and his predecessors, he
enquired, had to be thanked (that is, execrated) tor the
decay of the village? In the lifetime of my visitor’s father
herring-boats were actually built on the loch-side and sold
as far north as Stornaway. But such industry did not suit
the laird of that day who, wanting no sound of hammers in
his valley, crippled the industry so that it died. And now
there were the deer. A man could not wander about the
mountains without meeting a surly loon strung with a
telescope who turned him back in his master’s name. All the
fresh-water lochs and the very burns were also under the
control of these same loons. A stranger like myself might
get permission to fish them, but a villager by no means. It
was an article of faith with the laird (and with all lairds,
my visitor believed) that the native-born were to be
persecuted out of existence, or at least out of the homes
which they had inherited from their forefathers. “They treat
us,” he said, “as if we were trespassers in the land that
gave us birth. I’m telling you the truth, they do.” And so
on, and so on. After the interview he strode oft cheerfully,
having given me his hand and the assurance of his conviction
that, if I was not exactly a Radical of his kind, I was well
disposed towards him and his principles.
Well
disposed? One could hardly be aught else in the abstract. It
was when, with the laird’s permission, I fished in the
laird’s own tidal river and caught nothing worth a turn of
the reel that the other side of the picture came very much
home to me. That morning more than a hundred sea-trout,
weighing from half a pound up to three pounds apiece, had
been hoisted from the salt water within a stone’s throw of
the mouth of that once famous stream. There had been
handsome rain for a week, and by all portents the fish ought
to have got into the river and the fresh-water loch three
miles up the valley. But it was never a one for me ; and the
laird’s own son, installed at the lodge with his rod
betimes, had spent a whole week for a single salmon, and
that only a six-pounder. The laird’s head-keeper and the
laird’s son both talked heatedly about necks which deserved
twisting; and the former especially, being a man of a
distant clan, hoped with all his heart that his master would
stand no nonsense with the rogues. That bullet in Tammas
Macrea had been richly paid for with these months of
unhindered poaching. A doughty fellow was this head-keeper,
with the tuft of pine in his bonnet to declare his primary
devotion to the Grants of Speyside. He would risk much to
reinstate the laird’s dignity in the land, and had little
sympathy with the Southron weakness which, on the Tammas
Macrea news, had bidden the' laird write to his men not to
establish a blood feud ; better a little lawlessness than
that. Hoots ! one may die worse deaths than fighting. This
doughty headkeeper was built on the mould of that Captain
Lamont of the Black Watch who bewailed the hardship of his
lot in going out of the world in his bed “like a
manufacturer ”; he loved a mellay for its own sake.
But, on the
other hand, a contrast of the laird’s luxury, even in his
Highland lodge, with the privations of my poor friends the
Macs of the village, was enough and more to make me half the
Radical that leading Macrea would have had me be. I was in
the cabin of one Sandy Macrea in the morning, and that same
afternoon was shown the glories of what to the laird was a
mere pleasure-box for a month or two in the year. Sandy’s
cabin was warranted three ^hundred years old, and still had
for a chimney only a hole in the thatch of the kind which
authorities on Highland domestic architecture used to think
so fine an aid to the seasoning/ of timber and so sound a
preventive of rheums, catarrhs, and fevers. I could not
stand upright in Sandy’s parlour, and could just touch its
side walls at the same time. Ceiling and walls were papered
with newspapers, some of mid-Victorian days. The floor was
black earth hardened by the tread of Sandy’s boots and his
grey-haired sister’s feet. There was a small niche in the
parlour for the lady of the house to sleep in; and Sandy
himself snored o’ nights in the handsbreadth of shedding the
other side ,of the wall. The house had but this one room, in
fact, which was kitchen as well as parlour; though inasmuch
as breakfast and supper consisted of only a small bowl of
stirabout apiece, and dinner what sea-fish Sandy could take
in a borrowed boat, die room was more parlour than kitchen.
No rent was paid for the cabin, which had bred Macreas
unceasingly since the time of Queen Elizabeth; and on
earnest calculation Sandy thought that maybe he and his
sister spent on their joint maintenance from half-a-crown to
three shillings a week. They looked marvellous well on it
too, and asked for not much better than the power to make
sure of just those two or three weekly shillings.
But there was
the rub. Save these nocturnal catches of white fish in the
loch, Sandy had not a resource in the world, and it was only
in the rare coming of a visitor to the village that Sandy’s
sister could earn a trifle as a laundress. Yet the
contentment of this couple of middle-aged happy-go-luckies!
They rejoiced in the beauty of the outlook from their slit
of a door and peephole of a window as if they were emotional
cockneys among the mountains for but a fortnight. They were
nigh above the fish smells of the village, and they rejoiced
also in the nettles and clover of the green slope from their
cottage door. The distant hills, the nearer water, and the
pageants of sunrise and sunset, were, so the sister declared
with bright eyes, daily sights better to them than salt to
their brose. And hap what might, both of them wanted no more
of life than the privilege of just existing as they did
until it was time to die in the little house, which could in
the past have served only as a sort of hutch at night-time
for a larger family. The laird, said Sandy’s sister, part
mirthful and part indignant, had tried to persuade Sandy to
go to a town, and set up as a painter. But why on earth
should he do the likes o’ that foolishness, Sandy’s sister
mocked, when he was so well off where he was, and in his own
country moreover, where everybody respected him?
It was good
to gossip with such contentment in the midst of what would
seem unbearable poverty in Poplar or Shoreditch. There it
would mean not only poverty, but degradation and the world’s
contempt. To Sandy Macrea and his sister there was no shadow
of such a fear. They laughed at the smallness of their
porridge-bowls and put their trust in Providence. It was as
if they had been brought up on Jean Paul Richter, as well as
the irreducible minimum of nourishment for health, strength,
and spirits. “What,” asks Richter, “is poverty, that a man
should moan under it? It is but like the pain of piercing
the ears of a maiden, and you hang precious jewels in the
wound.” I gather that the minister of Sandy’s kirk preaches
pretty often on this same text. But he need not trouble even
to do that for these two. Sandy and his sister have a
priceless dower of resignation and dignity of their own, nor
would I for a small bribe offer either of them a half-crown
except on some specious pretext of a reciprocal service.
And from
Sandy’s cabin, in an hour or two, I found myself at the
laird’s lodge, a little palace of grey granite, with leaded
extinguisher turrets and every modern luxury inside. The
mountains rise like a cleft wall behind it, so that with the
naked eye one might see a stag if it chose to perch on the
summit of the topmost precipice, three thousand feet above
the grapes in the lodge conservatories. And the stags often
do so choose, in the summer, though in the winter there are
sheltered glens and corries enough for them in the many
square miles of mountain and valley over which the laird
reigns triumphant. Dark brooding crags, the crashing of
white waters from their midst, thick woods of pine and fir,
the shining river in the valley, the silver pool of the
nearest loch, and gardens teeming with fruit are here at the
service of the laird when it pleases him to enjoy them. The
rhododendron makes banks of many colours by the roadside and
in the lodge woods. There are hedges of fuchsia by the
lawns, roseries that astonish in such a latitude, rustic
summer-houses on little beauty-spots, rotting raspberries in
the garden of a size the village dominie’s caterans would
hardly believe possible, ripe strawberries enough for a
village, and a very prince of kail-yards in which every
vegetable seems the candidate for a prize-show. Glass-houses
also are there, where grapes, peaches, nectarines, plums,
pears, and purple figs are all ready in a moment to put on
the very bloom of perfection for their master’s pleasure;
acres of glass, screening such good things in such abundance
that I do not wonder to hear that much of it all rots like
the raspberries.
I was
admiring the tortured ingenuity of the apple-trees, loaded
with fruit in this lavish garden, when a sudden
"LookI” drew my attention to the mountains. It was the
laird’s pet eagle. The fiat has gone forth in this as in
other Highland territories that the king of birds is no
longer to be shot like a pirate pest, but cherished. The
laird’s eagle has its eyrie among the sheer crags above the
lodge, and is wont to float at its ease in the air between
the mountain-top and the turret of his benefactor. There is
also now a mate to him, and eaglets are expected. Local
opinion does not run at all even with the laird’s on the
interesting subject of his strong-pinioned favourite. The
farmers of course send in claims for lambs. His lairdship’s
keepers are at one with the farmers in their detestation of
that composed shape drifting so tranquilly out of gunshot in
the blue upper air. They wonder what the laird can be
thinking about. He might, in their ignorant belief, as
sensibly welcome grouse-disease, or the small-pox. It is not
as if the birds merely take toll of the lambs, with now and
then a very young calf to their names also ; their feud with
the hinds and their young in the mountains is just as
resolute, and would, with most lairds, be a deciding mark
against them. But our own particular laird does not heed
that, and so the eagles here are to live just as nature bids
them.
From the
lodge and its surprising grounds I ascend into die mountains
by that white torrent. There are little lochs full of fish
high up, and I am permitted to look at them. The track in
this savage and very contracted stairway is as smooth and
fine as a park walk. There are, I discover, miles and miles
of other tracks in the hollows between the mountains, where
the lochs with their pink and white sanded shores are now
consecrated entirely to the deer. “Ay, they’re the old
foot-roads, but they’re not used now. You see, it’s all in
the forest,” is the information I receive from my verderer
guide. Asked if he would prevent a Macrea of my village from
crossing the glen at our feet by the ribbon of road which is
still so very white and broad, the verderer is very positive
on the point. He would not trouble himself in the winter,
when no sane Macrea would be after taking such a short cut
through the mountains; but in the summer, with the
shooting-season at hand, he’d like to see the Macrea or the
Mac-anything who would escape his vigilance. “Would you
knock him down if he refused to keep off the road his
forefathers’ feet made?” I ask, rather flamboyantly. The
verderer did not think the law empowered him to go quite so
far. He would however tell the rascal what he thought of
him, take his name and report him ; and if he was a tenant
of the laird’s at the time he might as well thereafter shift
without waiting to be sent about his business. The verderer
had, naturally, more sympathy with his master’s potentiality
and privileges than with the limited life-horizon of the
neighbouring Macreas.
And so down
to the laird’s garden again, whence, having eaten a Sforza
fig and an Emperor plum, I return to the little village on
the lodi, its penury and its smells. That is a curious
inference of Dr. Sven Hedin’s in his book Across Asia where
he says: “The glen was both wild and picturesque, the
mountain scenery being on an imposing scale; consequently
the people who inhabit it were frank, cheerful, and
liberal-minded.” These loch-side villagers live surrounded
by just such landscape charms, but like the Corsicans and
other mountain-bred folk of my acquaintance, they fail in
those very qualities which, according to Dr. Hedin, belong
to their birthright. They are too much in bondage to the
tyranny of their heart-strings for one thing, and too
instinctively intelligent for another. A village full of
half-brained fools might do well here if they were poor
feeders, but discontent must ever be the portion of a
hundred or two average Macreas, in spite of the
counterpoising and rather sombre charm of an ancestral
atmosphere. The laird in the midst of his splendour and
purchased powers never can be loved by these unwelcome
hangers-on to his coat-tails unless he resolves to sink his
own interests in the very troubled lake of theirs.
And that of
course is where the difficulty in these modern, as in most
other, days happens to lie. The spirit of the times must
rule predominant. Our own particular laird would be
accounted mad if he dismissed his gamekeepers, bade the
Macreas of the village take the white fish at their will,
and encouraged them to increase and multiply and enjoy the
rather mystic pleasures of a life of abstinence and
idleness. He would do anything in reason to save the life of
one of these poor, and perhaps lazy, sentimentalists, but
why cannot they see that his nor any man’s coat-tails were
made for such abject clinging? Where is their common sense,
their manhood even?
If all these
loch-side Macreas were such blithe Stoics in indigence as
Sandy and his sister in their inherited kennel, one might
meet the question comfortably. No matter for their sense or
manhood, one might retort; let them stay where they are and
receive half-a-crown a week or so per household from the
State as models for a newer and very economical scheme of
Poor Relief whereby existing workhouses may be broken up,
and the country, as distinct from the towns, be peopled
afresh and thus be more closely cultivated. But that were
impossible. The pride of the Macreas will help them to bear
much privation, but it forbids them to accept doles. If they
were thus endowed, I can fancy them throwing their weekly
half-crowns to the servants of the laird up the glen, as
better accustomed to the receipt of alms. The Black Watch,
who were sent south to be exhibited to George the Second at
St. James’s Palace, did something of that kind with the
guineas the monarch gave than in approval of their inches
and costume. It is in the blood of people whose simplicity
and devotion to their native spot is so extreme as theirs.
And so, with the laird himself, one can only wish them well
while they are alive, but no sons and daughters as simple as
themselves.
Charles
Edwardes