Warm showery Summer, disagreeable for the Tourist, but
pastorally and agriculturally favourable —Xiphias
Gladius ,
or Sword-Fish, cast ashore during a Midsummer Gale— Garibaldi dining on
Potatoes and Sword-Fish steaks at Caprera—The General's Drink— Medicinal
virtues of an Onion—Nettle Broth—Translation of a New Zealand Maori
Song.
''Rather showery,
sir," exclaims the pleasure-seeking butterfly tourist as he stands at
his hotel window, or settles himself as comfortably as may be on the
box-seat of the coach in the morning. "Not a bit of it, sir," responds
the sturdy agriculturist or well-to-do drover; "not a bit of it, sir,
the finest growing weather we could have : cattle and sheep getting into
condition famously!" [July 1873]. In such a case it is best to avoid
declaring positively for either party. In
medio tutissimus ibis. Both
are right from their individual standpoint; that of the agriculturist
and drover being the utilitarian and anti-poetic, while the sentimental
tourist, bent on sight-seeing and recreation, very pardonably grumbles
that instead of clear skies and refreshing breezes he is as often as not
enveloped in mist and small rain. In any case the country is at present
most beautiful, and despite the grumblings of a few, who foolishly
expect to have "a' the comforts of the Sautmarket" about them
whithersoever they wander, such batches of tourists as we forgather with
from time to time are in raptures with our glens, and bens, and lochs,
and richly wooded shores, as well they may. And never before in the West
Highlands were all the conveniences for "touristing" with ease and
comfort, and all reasonable despatch, so perfect and so varied.
A tolerably perfect, though not very large specimen of
the sword-fish, the Xiphias
gladius of
ichthyologists, was cast ashore in our neighbourhood during an unusually
heavy midsummer gale from the south-west last week. The length of the
elongated snout, commonly called the sword or dagger, was two feet seven
inches, a really formidable weapon, with which it has been known,
whether willingly or unwillingly it would be difficult to say, to
perforate the bottom timbers of the stoutest ships, the sword in such
cases luckily breaking off as a rule, and thus becoming an immediate as
well as an efficient plug or stop-gap to the perforation. It is a more
frequent visitor to our shores than our natural history books would lead
one to believe, hardly a summer passing but you hear of one or more
being caught or cast ashore somewhere. This is the fourth specimen that
within twenty years has come under our personal inspection here on the
west coast. The largest and finest we ever saw was captured by a
well-known Fort-William fisherman, Iack
Crubach,
or Lame Jack. If we well remember, we think he told us that somebody
gave him a sovereign for it. Its flesh is said to be excellent eating,
while its liver affords an oil equal to eel oil in transparency, and of
marvellous virtue, it is said, as a medicament. The favourite habitats
of the sword-fish are the Sicilian and the Italian shores of the
Mediterranean, where, at certain seasons of the year, it is caught in
great numbers, the average weight being quite a hundred, and sometimes
two hundred pounds or more. We have it in our Common-Place
Booh that
Major Healy, of the yacht "Wildbird," informed us in Fort-William
(August 1869) that he had just returned from the Mediterranean; had
called on Garibaldi at Caprera, and dined with him on potatoes and
sword-fish steaks, which the gallant Major pronounced excellent. We may
state, as something curious, that while the Major at said dinner had his
choice of very good wines, with lots of capital bottled " Bass" from
England, the General himself drank a funny decoction composed of Marsala,
and water—half-and-half—in which a large onion, sliced lemon-wise, had
been steeping for the whole previous night—a drink which the Major
tasted, and in very emphatic phrase declared to be " beastly," but which
he shrewdly guessed had something to do with the General's rheumatism
and gout. Any of our readers having a tendency thitherwards might do
worse than take the hint. There may be something in it, for we
recollect, when a little boy in Morven, that an onion was somehow
considered apanpharmacon, a
perfect panacea—good
for any and every ailment. That the mediaeval herbalist, like the
mediaeval alchemist, was often a quack is very likely. In many instances
he could hardly be otherwise when his profession was in such repute; but
it is a question if our revulsion has not gone too far; if our modern
medicinists do not rather much overlook, too contemptuously ignore, the
inherent virtues, as to human ailments, of roots and herbs and "flowers
of the field." An old lady in our neighbourhood, shrewd and intelligent
beyond most of her class, told us not long ago as she was cutting
nettles by the roadside, as an evening bonne
bouche for
her cow, that Stewart of Invernahyle, Sir \Walter Scott's friend, made
it a point every spring to have nettle broth or soup on three
consecutive days about the season of the vernal equinox, which he
religiously believed acted as a safe and efficient diuretic for the
remainder of the year. From Mairi
Bhan, Invernahyle's
sister, the
"Mhairi Bhan gur bar rail thu "
of Macintyre's well-known song, are descended at least
two Presbyterian clergymen, though the Invernahyles themselves were
strongly Episcopal ;.an—ourselves,
namely, and the Eev. Mr. Cameron, Free Church minister of Ardersier. And
the writing of the word " Episcopalian" above reminds us of the fact
that the titular dignity of the Bishopric of Argyll and the Isles is at
present vacant. The late Bishop, Dr. Ewing, with whom we had the honour
of being on most intimate and friendly terms, was an unostentatiously
pious, thoroughly good, and really very ahle man, whom nine-tenths of
the clergy of his own Church would not or could not understand. Thank
God that in the enumeration of the good men whom we have known, the
fingers of both hands do not suffice; and of the really good men whom we
have been privileged to know and honour with affectionate regard was the
late Bishop Ewing.
Some months ago we wrote to an old college chum, now
farming in New Zealand, advising him, as some occupation for his idle
hours, to pick up and send us such scraps of songs and poems as he might
find among the Maori race around him. No uncivilised people that we had
read or heard of seemed to us, in many respects, so like our ancient
Highlanders—the Fingalians, so called, of our older ballad poetry—and
Ave thought that so much of their poetry and folk-lore as could be
gathered could not fail to be interesting. Our correspondent says:—"The
Maoris, as you so shrewdly guessed, have a good deal of poetry among
them; short songs, however, for the most part, and rhymed proverbs, and
"wisdom words," as they call them, very much like the Welsh "Triads," for
they generally teach some three particular
doctrines, or state historically some three particular
facts. A few Aveeks ago
I got an old man who came
this way to sing me some aboriginal songs, and the one that most struck
my fancy I now send
to you. It is perfectly literal, for I know the native language well, and
as you are fond of rhyming, you may put it into verse if you like. I can
only send a true translation, line for line.
Maori Song.—
(Translation.)
Fish in the pool? No fish in the pool;
And the women are sad because of it.
The men, too, are sad ; but to-morrow
The fish will be big, and fat, and many.
I heard the bird singing a pleasant song.
He sang of food; he also sang of love.
The name of this bird is known to me,
But I will not tell it till we meet under the moon.
The stranger, with his face so ugly and pale,
Has come from far over the sea.
He loves us, he says; but a Maori maid
Will not listen to his love.
The mountains and vales of our own land
Are pleasant to see and live among.
And the sun at his setting is very red—
Red with love to the Maori; angry at the stranger.
My father lived here long ago;
He lived here, and here also lived the paroipa (a
kind of bird).
The paraipa is
not here, and my father is dead:
Woe is me, I wander among strangers. |