Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 699

'That is all I want you to do; just to tell her that her friend Miss Haddon called, and intends to come again next visiting day.'

'Very well, ma'am; I don't mind telling her that,' she returned, looking wooden and dull again, as her fingers closed over the money; once more the same sullen, unimpressionable woman we had at first seen, as she closed the gates upon us.

'O Mary, what a dreadful place! How could any one be expected to be better for living there!' ejaculated Lilian. 'How could they select a woman like Mrs Gower to influence her fellow-creatures!'

'There certainly appears to have been a great mistake somewhere,' I thoughtfully replied. 'So benevolent a scheme might surely be better carried out.'

I may as well state here what came to my knowledge later – respecting the Home and its management. Mrs Osborne, the founder, had commenced her work of benevolence without sufficient experience and knowledge of the class she wished to benefit. Like many other benevolent people, she believed that love was all that was needed for the work; and the lady she had at first engaged to act as superintendent was as enthusiastic and non-executive as herself. The consequences were disastrous; and it told much in Mrs Osborne's favour that she had the courage to try again. Unfortunately, in her anxiety to avoid her former error, she ran into the opposite extreme. Mrs Gower was selected from numerous other applicants on account of her having previously held office as matron of a prison, and possessing testimonials as to her special fitness for the executive department.

Accustomed to deal with the worst side of human nature, and to the enforcement of the necessarily rigid rules of prison-life, in which all must pass through one routine, Mrs Gower had become a mere disciplinarian, treating those under her charge in the Home as though their minds were all of precisely the same pattern, and that a very bad one.

If half the stories which reached me respecting her luxurious self-indulgent life were true, the effect upon those to whom she was supposed to be an example was undoubtedly bad. And if there were good grounds for the statement that her appointment to the office of prison matron had been to her a rise in life, it quite sufficiently accounted for the want of refinement in thought and habit, which occasioned her to live too luxuriously, and deck herself in too rich clothing for one living amongst women supposed to be endeavouring to strengthen themselves against yielding to temptation.

Again, good as he undoubtedly was, Mr Wyatt, upon whom Mrs Osborne depended for spiritual help, was not fitted for the task. He was too young, as well as too naturally timid and shy, to manage a number of women, who deceived him with the pretence of reformation when it suited their purpose better than openly laughing at him. Long afterwards, he told me how terribly he used to dread his visits to the Home, and how much he was troubled at the little effect of his teachings. It took him a long time to understand that the best natures might appear to be the worst under such training as Mrs Gower's.

That Mrs Osborne herself was quite satisfied with the new management, is too much to say. But although Mrs Gower was not a woman after her heart, past failures had rendered Mrs Osborne distrustful of her own judgment; and she could not deny that there at least appeared to be better effects produced now than during the former management. Although there were occasional failures, which nothing could gloss over, Mrs Gower could point to the fact that a certain number of the inmates were annually drafted into service, and whatever became of them, they did not reappear at the Home.

LIFE IN ST KILDA

SECOND PAPER

The men of St Kilda are in the habit of congregating in front of one of the houses almost every morning for the discussion of business. I called this assembly the Parliament, and, with a laugh, they adopted the name. When the subject is exciting, the members talk with loud voices and all at one time; but when the question is once settled, they work together in perfect harmony. Shall we go to catch solan-geese, or ling, or mend the boat to-day? are examples of the subjects that occupy the House. Sometimes disputes are settled by drawing lots. A system of mutual insurance has existed from time immemorial. A large number of sheep are annually lost by falling over the cliffs, and the owners are indemnified by the other members of the community, whose contributions are in proportion to the number of sheep they possess, and the consequent risk. As the calculations are all performed mentally, I think this shews no small arithmetical power. Parliament, besides being necessary to the conduct of business, has, I think, a salutary effect on the minds of the people, and helps to keep them cheerful in spite of their isolated position and excessive religious exercises. Man is a gregarious animal, and there are no people more so than the St Kildans. In work every one follows his neighbour. If one puts a new thatch on his barn, a man is to be seen on the top of every barn in the village. If the voice of praise is heard at the door of one house, all, you may be sure, are engaged in worship; and so on.

The St Kildans are remarkable for their piety. They are all members of the Free Church, and contribute somewhere about ten pounds annually to the Sustentation Fund of that body. They go three times to church on Sunday, and hold a prayer-meeting every Wednesday. They have also service on the first Tuesday of every month to return thanks for the preservation of Captain Otter and his crew, whose ship was nearly lost on the island about thirteen years ago. This was instituted at the request of the (now deceased) captain, who brought them supplies in a season of dearth, and attempted some improvements; which have all proved abortive. The minister is one who commands attention – every eye fastened on him throughout the discourse; and if any one happens to drop asleep, he or she is immediately aroused by a stinging remonstrance from the pulpit! Such, for instance, as saying in Gaelic: 'Arouse your wife, Lachlin – she won't sleep much in Tophet, I think, eh?' which causes Lachlin to poke his elbow in his wife's side immediately. The church is a miserable place, with no floor but mother earth, and with damp sticking to the walls like hoar-frost or feathers. The seats are rude benches, many of them bored and grooved by the ship-worm. Here all the women sit for about six and a half hours every Sunday with bare feet and legs, even in winter. Family worship is held in every house morning and evening; and when parties of men or women reside in the other islands they 'make their worship,' as they phrase it, just as they do at home. Every meal is preceded by a grace, nor will they take a drink of milk or water without uncovering the head.

The St Kildans are quite as industrious as they are pious. Every family has a croft of ground, which they carefully cultivate, although their method of husbandry admits of improvement. They grow oats, barley, and potatoes, all of which are planted too thickly. The ground is manured with the carcases of puffins. But there is a great waste of this valuable manure, many thousands of these birds being left after the plucking season, to rot in the island of Boreray every year! The grain is ground into meal by handmills. In the beginning of summer the rocks are scaled, and the neighbouring islets visited, for old solan-geese and eggs. They fish for ling in summer and pluck instead of clipping their sheep. The wool is spun by the women, and woven by the men into cloth and blankets, which, after providing clothes for themselves, are sold to the factor. In August they catch the young fulmars, and in September the young solan-geese. In winter the spinning-wheels and looms are busy from the dawn of day until two or three next morning. Their diligence and endurance are astonishing.

The belted plaid (the original kilt) was the dress worn by the St Kildans when Martin visited the island in 1697. Previous to that they wore sheep-skins. But leg-garments wide and open at the knees were beginning to be introduced. Now the men wear trousers and vests of coarse blue cloth with blanket shirts. On Sundays they wear jackets in addition. The brog tiondadh or turned shoe, so called because it is sewed on the wrong side and then turned inside out, was in vogue until quite recently, and specimens are still to be seen. It is made to fit either foot, and is sewed with thongs of sheep-skin. They buy the leather from the factor. The sheep-skins are still tanned by themselves with, according to my informants, a kind of bark found under the turf.

The dress of the women consists of a cotton handkerchief on the head – Turkey-red being preferred – which is tied under the chin, and a gown (made by the men) of strong blue cloth, or blue with a thin purple stripe, fastened at the breast with a large pin made from a fish-hook. The skirt is girdled below the waist with a sash of divers colours, and is worn very short, their muscular limbs being visible to near the knee. They wear neither shoes nor stockings in summer, and very seldom in winter. They go barefoot even to church, and on that occasion don a dark plaid, which is fastened with a copper brooch made from an old penny. Formerly the heads and necks of solan-geese were used by the fair sex as shoes; but these have gone out of fashion. The men too are generally to be seen without shoes. Sheep-skin caps were once common, and are yet worn by a few.

Both sexes look strong and healthy, have bright eyes, teeth like new ivory, and are capable of long-continued exertion. There are only six surnames on the island – namely Gillies, Ferguson, Macdonald, MacKinnon, MacQueen, and MacCrimmen. The average height of the men is about five feet six inches. The tallest man is five feet nine inches, the shortest four feet ten and a half. I measured twenty-one male adults. They are tough and hardy, and know nothing of the diseases which are common in other places. There is one old man of weak intellect, who is quiet and peaceable when not contradicted. He lives in a smoky thatched old hovel by himself. He has a sister afflicted with epilepsy. Another old man is blind from cataract.

The most extraordinary complaint that visits St Kilda is called the Stranger's Cold. The natives firmly believe that the arrival of a boat communicates this disease. They say that the illness is more severe when the ship or boat comes from Harris, and that they suffer less when the vessel comes from Glasgow or London. It is curious that every one caught this distemper immediately after the arrival of the smack and boat in 1876, and again on the landing of the Austrians this year. Not one St Kildan escaped. No one was ill during the intervening six or seven months. The symptoms are a severe headache, and pain and stiffness in the muscles of the jaw, a deep rough cough, discharge from the nose, and rapid pulse. But the great scourge of St Kilda is a distemper to which the infants are subject. This keeps down the population, and has prevailed for at least one hundred and twenty years. Medical men call it Tetanus and the Irish 'Nine-day fits.' Doctors differ as to the cause: some say that it arises from the mothers living on sea-fowl; others to weakening of the blood from long-continued intermarriage; some that an operation necessary at birth is not properly performed; others that the infant is smothered with peat-smoke; whilst some aver that the child is killed by improper feeding; and I am now inclined to believe that the last is the true reason. Comparatively few of the children born on the rock survive for more than a few days; they are seized with convulsions and lockjaw, and soon become exhausted. Those who escape grow up into fine men and women – sound as a general rule in mind and body; but it is a significant fact that intending mothers often go to Harris if they can, to be confined, that they may escape the curse that seems to hang over the child that is born in St Kilda.

The people of St Kilda and Harris have no great esteem for each other. Mothers in Harris threaten to send their children when naughty to St Kilda; Harris men call the St Kildans gougan (young solan-geese). The St Kildans again never mention Harris but in terms of contempt: A poor place – dirty, shabby, greedy, &c.

The St Kildans talk Gaelic, and nothing but Gaelic. The minister and a woman who is a relation of his know English as well; but both are from the mainland. All are very polite in their own way. When they meet one of a morning they lift their bonnets with the left hand, and hold out the right, and never fail to ask for one's health and how one has slept.

When I had acquired some little knowledge of the language, I made inquiries about Lady Grange, who had been forcibly sent to St Kilda in 1734, and kept there for seven years. Her name was familiar to all the old people and to some of the young. Tradition says that she slept during the day and got up at night. She never learned Gaelic. The house in which she lived was demolished a few years ago. It belonged to the steward, and was exactly like the old houses still standing, but a little larger. A dearth happened to prevail during the whole time she remained on the island; but she got an ample share of what little food there was. The best turf was provided for her fire, and the spot where it was got is still called the Lady's Pool. She was much beloved; and the people presented her with a straw-chair, as a token of respect, when she was carried off to Harris. I heard nothing of her violent temper. Perhaps she had some reason to be violent when at home!

The churchyard, small and elliptical in form, is at the back of the village. The door is kept carefully shut. None of the tombstones bears an inscription, except one erected by a minister. I brought two sculptor's chisels with me, intending to carve a stone as a pattern, but could not find one soft enough to cut. Some of the men seemed eager to erect monuments to their friends, and brought me slabs; but none was found suitable. The ruins of an ancient chapel stood in the middle of the churchyard. The walls, I was informed, were about sixteen feet high; but this ruin was removed a few years ago, the stones being adapted for building. One is to be seen built into the wall of a cottage, and has a cross incised upon it. It must have been a good bit of steel that cut it, as the stone is like granite.

Close to the churchyard is a stone called the Stone of Knowledge, which is said to have possessed magical properties. He who stood upon it on the first day of the quarter became gifted with the second-sight, and was able to foresee all the events that were to occur during that quarter. I tried it on the first day (old style) of the present spring, but saw nothing except three or four women laden with peats, and smiling at my affected credulity. It does not seem to be much venerated in these sceptical times.

At the back of the village is an old cellar, said to have been erected by one man in a single day. It is built of huge stones, some of them too ponderous to be lifted by any two men of these degenerate times. The people refer to this cellar as a proof of the superior strength of their ancestors. The builder had very nearly stumbled on the principle of the arch, which is as yet unknown in St Kilda. I shewed the men (who are all experienced masons in their own way) the photograph of an old bridge, and they looked at it with much interest and thorough understanding.

There were formerly three chapels on St Kilda, dedicated respectively to Christ, Columba, and Brendon. They still existed in 1759, but not a vestige of them now remains.

But the most extraordinary relic of antiquity in the village is a subterranean house. I had heard of it on my first visit; and on the 13th July 1876 determined to have it opened and examined. A crop of potatoes grew on the top, and the owner at first refused to allow this to be disturbed. But by dint of raillery, persuasion, and a promise to pay the damage, he at length acceded to my request. This underground dwelling was discovered about thirty-two years ago by a man who was digging the ground above it, and was generally called the House of the Fairies. The aperture on the top was filled up again, and it had never been opened since. But after a little search the hole was found and an entrance made. Two or three men volunteered to clear out the stones and soil that had accumulated on the floor to a depth of several feet, and worked with a will. The house was found to be twenty-five feet long by three feet eight inches wide, and about four feet in height. The walls consisted of three or four ranges of stones, a roof of slabs resting on the sides. This house runs due north and south, and curiously enough there is a drain under the floor. Amongst the débris on the floor I found numerous stone axes, knives, and fragments of a lamp, as well as pieces of rude pottery. As there was no tradition concerning this house, and as it is assigned to the fairies, it may be very old; but I am inclined to think that the stone period extended to a very recent date in St Kilda. I have some satisfaction in believing that I am the discoverer of stone implements in St Kilda, and that my claim has been recognised by the Society of Scottish Antiquaries.

One day I went to the islet called The Dun, which stands opposite the village, and forms the south or south-west side of the bay. It is separated from St Kilda by a narrow channel. I went along with three men and three boys, who for want of better work tried to catch puffins. This business being easy, is generally left to the women. Although the sea was covered with these birds, they were uncommonly shy on shore and difficult to catch; about forty-five was the average bag. The Dun, although the crags are comparatively low, affords some grand bits of rock-scenery. The site of an ancient altar is still to be seen. The stones which formed it have, however, been removed. At the southern extremity of the island is a mount on which great blocks of stone are piled up in wild disorder. These blocks have been spoken of as being the relics of a fort; but this is open to doubt. The St Kildans probably trusted to hiding themselves in times of danger. There is not a single weapon of war in the island; but bows and arrows are mentioned in the traditions. The Dun, comparatively tame on the side next the bay, is wild and picturesque where it faces the ocean. Some of the crags are crowned by pinnacles and fantastic protuberances, and the base is perforated with caves, into which the foaming billows rush and rage for ever.

On my return from The Dun I found a boat at the shore laden with puffins. She had come from Boreray, and had brought a cargo of birds to be plucked at home, so as to assist the young women, who were suffering from the 'Stranger's Cold,' combined with swollen throats – and no wonder! for the weather had been bad, and these unprotected females had never changed their clothes, but slept in the garments that they wore during the day; and although accustomed to severe exercise in the open air, had sat exposed to the cold, plucking feathers from morning till night. They suffered great hardships, and only get the pittance of six shillings a St Kilda stone (twenty-four pounds) for the feathers, which are of excellent quality. At that time the few people left in the village were also busy plucking feathers; and the smell of roasted puffins – 'a very ancient and fish-like smell' – came from every door. These birds also furnish a feast for all the dogs and hooded crows that haunt the village. I ate a puffin by way of experiment, and found it tasted like a kippered herring, with a flavour of the dog-fish. Custom would no doubt make it more palatable. On the 3d of August a boat went to Boreray and brought back a cargo of puffins and gougan or young solan-geese. On the 6th two boats went again to that island, and brought back the twelve young women who had been catching puffins, together with the feathers. Some of the women caught as many as six hundred puffins a day. I calculate that eighty-nine thousand six hundred puffins must have been killed by both sexes. The fingers of the girls had become so sore from plucking the feathers that they were obliged to use their teeth in drawing the tail and pinions!

There was a debate whether it would be advisable to begin to catch the young fulmars, or to delay for a day or two, in the hope that the weather would improve. It was decided to delay, but meanwhile to bring out and test the ropes used for going down the cliffs. Some of the ropes were made from hair cut from St Kilda horses, and were forty years old. One of them gave way. Old men remember when there were ponies on the island; but many under forty have never seen a horse except in pictures. Ropes of manilla hemp are now used, and fewer accidents occur than in the olden time, when ropes of hair and even straw were employed. Some of the men made me feel the bumps and scars upon their scalps caused by the falling of stones from the cliffs above, whilst they were dangling below.

At length fulmar-catching began in earnest. I went in the morning with a party of men in a small boat to the islet of Soa, which is close to St Kilda. It is exceedingly difficult to land on that small island in any weather, from the swell of the sea and the steepness of the shore; but I determined to go to the top. We landed on the south side. With the end of a rope around my waist, the other end being held by a man on shore, I leaped on the rocks and climbed up the cliffs at the base, assisted by a pull when needful from a man, who now preceded me. At a short distance up, the rocks became less regular. Great masses of stone spring tower-like out of the ground, and blocks of all sizes are crowded together on the steep acclivity. An old man called MacRuaridh or the Son of Rory acts as my guide; and although he totters on level ground, he goes up the hill without any difficulty. About half way up, amongst masses of huge blocks of stone, he shews me an old house which tradition says was made by one Duncan in ancient times. Close to this antique bothy are three houses equally primitive, in which the women pluck and store the feathers. Farther up, the steep ground is covered with a rich crop of grass, which affords sustenance to a flock of sheep of a peculiar breed. They are of a fawn colour, and are very wild. They run like deer; and are only caught to be plucked. They belong to the proprietor of the island. By means of a gentle ascent, I reached the highest part of the island, which terminates abruptly in a cliff one thousand and thirty-one feet in height. Far down I could just distinguish two of our crew, who were busy catching fulmars on the rocks, and the boat floating like a tiny mussel-shell at the base. These afforded a kind of standard by which to estimate the height of this stupendous crag. MacRuaridh and I sat and rested for a little on the verge of the cliff; but he soon grew tired of doing nothing, and began to peer over the edge in search of young fulmars, some of which he saw on a cliff adjacent, and caught.

Having caught as many fulmars as he could carry, we descended to the rocks where we had landed. The sea had risen considerably since that time. After waiting for about two hours, the boat came round the island heavily laden with fulmars. Some of the crew (there were twelve in all) had got into her on the other side. But four or five came down the rocks to where I was, and cast anxious looks at the boat and at the waves, that came sweeping along from the west at a right angle with the shore. Two young men sat on the top of the cliff, each holding a rope, by the help of which the others slid into the boat. Then came my turn. A line was fastened around my waist, and a hair-rope put into my hand. I was peremptorily requested to take off my shoes; and as I descended, I pushed my toes into any crevice or cranny that offered, until the rock became so smooth that I could find no hold for my feet. Then I was obliged to be passive, and allowed myself to be lowered like a sack until I reached a small limpet-covered shelf on which the waves rose about knee-deep. 'Jump! Jump!' shout the crew; and when the boat mounts on the wave, I leap, and fall in a heap amongst the fulmars – all right. The air was quite calm, but the sea continued to rise, and the boat was in imminent danger of being dashed to pieces against the wall. At one time she became altogether unmanageable, and was forced by the sea into a place where the rocks were under her bottom, and caused several hard bumps. The water too began to pour over the gunnel, and I thought that every wave would send us to the bottom. It being impossible to get the two men on board at that spot, the boat was rowed along to a cliff farther south. The waves were quite as wild there; but a double line having been passed around a projecting stone, and the ends held firmly in the boat, the two men slid down and pulled the rope after them. A few strokes of the oars carried us out of danger. In the excursion I experienced no little exhaustion. A morsel of cheese and a bit of oat-cake was all I had tasted during the day, as I had hurried off without breakfast. It was dark when we reached the village.

THE TWELFTH RIG

IN SIX CHAPTERS

CHAPTER III. – THE FLIGHT

All next day Eliza was paler than her wont; her face wore a restless troubled expression, and she went about the house in an absent preoccupied manner, very different from usual.

Mary Conlan, who watched her face all day, thought that the omens of the night before, which seemed to indicate some dire misfortune, had roused her to serious reflection, and that she was making up her mind to abandon all thoughts of Crofton for ever, and return to her allegiance to Hogan, hoping it might yet be possible to avert the threatened evil.

Yet whatever her thoughts may have been, that evening found Eliza in the garden as usual, glancing up and down the road; and twilight saw her leaning over the gate engaged in earnest conversation with Crofton. Thus on each succeeding evening she might be seen. Those who had known her from a child came to her with advice and warnings. But some stood aloof and shook their heads. 'Sure, it's no use,' they said. 'She can't help the doom that's on her, poor thing; best leave her alone.'

Her father, too, seriously remonstrated with her. He did not indeed know how frequent her meetings with Crofton were, for he, worthy man, was generally napping in his chair after his day's labour when the interviews at the garden-gate took place; still, he had heard and seen enough to make him very uneasy. Even supposing that Crofton were in earnest and wished to marry Eliza, he felt sure that such an unequal marriage would not bring happiness to her in any way. And besides, he had set his heart on her wedding Hogan, whom he cordially liked, with whom he could trust her; and everything would be open and straightforward, she living on the spot, and among the people with whom she had been brought up. He tried to represent the thing clearly to Eliza, how Charles Crofton's family would be offended, and how he would needs break his engagement to Miss Courtney. He tried to shew her all the unpleasantness that must result.

She heard him in a silence that seemed dogged, pouting her lips when he spoke of the advantage she would have in always remaining amongst them as Hogan's wife. In the same manner she listened to all the rest who spoke to her on this subject; but no promise could be extracted from her to discontinue her meetings with Crofton. From that time, however, the garden interviews were given up, but only, as it appeared, for a more secret meeting-place.

One evening after dusk, as Hogan was walking along a path between some fields, he heard voices behind the hedge. He stood still a moment. He could not mistake that tone, with its accent of refinement. It was certainly Crofton and Eliza. They seemed as if taking leave of each other. He could not overhear their words, save a few disconnected ones.

'To-morrow morning,' Crofton was saying, 'before any one' – The remainder of the sentence was lost.

Then came Eliza's voice, low and somewhat tremulous; and Crofton again, in tender impassioned tones. Then there was a few moments' silence, and they seemed to part. But the footsteps returned, and again he heard their voices, as if they could not bear to tear themselves from each other without more last fond words and (Hogan clenched his hand as the suggestion arose) caresses. A low murmur only reached him now, followed by another short silence. How was it filled up? he wondered; and he ground his teeth in anger, and the hot blood mounted to his forehead. Steps now came along by the hedge. He walked on. He knew Crofton was behind him. In a few minutes the latter came up, and as he passed, looked at Hogan sharply, with an expression of annoyance on his handsome face; but he said gaily, though with a touch of insolence in his tone: 'Wandering absorbed in thoughts of love, Hogan; or only considering what crops you will sow this year? Which, may I inquire?'

'It doesn't concern any one but myself, I think, sir; but my thoughts are honest at anyrate.'

'Which means that somebody else's aren't, and I suppose I am that somebody. But I assure you, my good fellow, I haven't the slightest intention of filching anything from your barns, or committing other depredation upon you.'

'I don't know,' muttered Hogan, as the other passed on whistling an air.

'She must pass just now,' he said to himself, and stopping, leaned on part of a broken wall, half concealed from view. In a little while he heard the rustle of a dress and a light tread. Eliza came by, a bright flush on her cheek. She started a little on seeing him; then with a nod and a careless 'Good-evening,' was going on, when he detained her.

'You've just parted from Mr Crofton?' he said.

'Well,' she answered, looking full at him; 'and what then?'

'Eliza!' he burst out passionately, 'is it all over between us? Tell me at once, and crush me with one word. I would rather know. This suspense is more than I can bear. It is killing me.'

She hesitated. 'Well, Will, I suppose so.'