{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_37293/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_37293","id":"gutenberg_37293","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37293","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Poetry","English literature -- Scottish authors","Scottish literature"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Delphine Lettau, Judith Wirawan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  +------------------------------------------------------------------+\n  | Transcriber's Notes:                                             |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Words surrounded by _ are italicized.                            |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Due to the restriction of the latin-1 font, diacritical marking  |\n  | macron (straight horizonal line above a letter) in this text is  |\n  | represented with [=x].                                           |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | A number of obvious errors have been corrected in this text. For |\n  | a complete list, please see the bottom of this document.         |\n  |                                                                  |\n  +------------------------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n\n\n  The Works of\n\n  \"FIONA MACLEOD\"\n\n  _UNIFORM EDITION_\n\n  ARRANGED BY\n\n  MRS. WILLIAM SHARP\n\n  VOLUME IV\n\n\n\n\n    _The Gods approve the depth and not the tumult of\n  the soul._\n\n        _It is loveliness I seek, not lovely things._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: From the original by L. Y. Cameron\nIona Cathedral]\n\n\n\n\n  THE DIVINE ADVENTURE\n\n  IONA\n\n  STUDIES IN SPIRITUAL HISTORY\n\n  BY\n\n  \"FIONA MACLEOD\"\n  (WILLIAM SHARP)\n\n\n  LONDON\n  WILLIAM HEINEMANN\n  1912\n\n\n  _UNIFORM EDITION_\n\n  _First published 1910. New Edition 1912_\n\n  _Copyright 1895, 1910._\n\n\n\n\n           THE WIND, SILENCE, AND LOVE\n         FRIENDS WHO HAVE TAUGHT ME MOST:\n  BUT SINCE,  LONG AGO, TWO WHO ARE NOT FORGOTTEN\n   WENT AWAY UPON THE ONE, AND DWELL, THEMSELVES\n  REMEMBERING, IN THE OTHER, I DEDICATE THIS BOOK\n                        TO\n                    EALASAIDH\n       WHOSE LOVE AND SPIRIT LIVE HERE ALSO\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n\n  THE DIVINE ADVENTURE                                               1\n\n  IONA                                                              91\n\n  BY SUNDOWN SHORES:\n\n      BY SUNDOWN SHORES                                            253\n\n      THE WIND, SILENCE, AND LOVE                                  263\n\n      BARABAL: A MEMORY                                            268\n\n      THE WHITE HERON                                              276\n\n      THE SMOOTHING OF THE HAND                                    292\n\n      THE WHITE FEVER                                              298\n\n      THE SEA-MADNESS                                              303\n\n      EARTH, FIRE, AND WATER                                       308\n\n  FROM \"GREEN FIRE\":\n\n      THE HERDSMAN                                                 319\n\n      FRAGMENTS                                                    383\n\n  A DREAM                                                          405\n\n  NOTES                                                            411\n\n  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE                                             433\n      By Mrs. William Sharp.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIVINE ADVENTURE\n\n\n  \"_Let the beginning, I say, of this little book, as if it were some\n  lamp, make it clear that a divine miracle was manifested._\"\n\n                                       _St. Adamnan_, Book II. c. I.\n\n\n\n\nThe Divine Adventure\n\n\nI\n\n  \"We were three: the Body, the Will, and the Soul.... The Will, the\n  Soul, which for the first time had gone along outside of our common\n  home, had to take upon themselves bodily presences likewise.\"--_The\n  Divine Adventure._\n\nI remember that it was on St. John's Eve we said we would go away\ntogether for a time, but each independently, as three good friends. We\nhad never been at one, though we had shared the same home, and had\nenjoyed so much in common; but to each, at the same time, had come the\ngreat desire of truth, than which there is none greater save that of\nbeauty.\n\nWe had long been somewhat weary. No burden of years, no serious ills, no\ngrief grown old in its own shadow, distressed us. We were young. But we\nhad known the two great ends of life--to love and to suffer. In deep\nlove there is always an inmost dark flame, as in the flame lit by a\ntaper: I think it is the obscure suffering upon which the Dancer lives.\nThe Dancer!--Love, who is Joy, is a leaping flame: he it is who is the\nson of that fabled planet, the Dancing Star.\n\nOn that St. John's Eve we had talked with friends on the old mysteries\nof this day of pagan festival. At last we withdrew, not tired or in\ndisagreement, but because the hidden things of the spirit are the only\nrealities, and it seemed to us a little idle and foolish to discuss in\nthe legend that which was not fortuitous or imaginary, since what then\nheld up white hands in the moonlight, even now, in the moonlight of the\ndreaming mind, beckons to the Divine Forges.\n\nWe left the low-roofed cottage room, where, though the window was open,\ntwo candles burned with steadfast flame. The night was listeningly\nstill. Beyond the fuchsia bushes a sighing rose, where a continuous\nfoamless wave felt the silences of the shore. The moonpath, far out upon\nthe bronze sea, was like a shadowless white road. In the dusk of the\nhaven glimmered two or three red and green lights, where the\nfishing-cobles trailed motionless at anchor. Inland were shadowy hills.\nOne of the St. John's Eve fires burned on the nearest of these, its cone\nblotting out a thousand eastern stars. The flame rose and sank as\nthough it were a pulse: perhaps at that great height the sea-wind or a\nmountain air played upon it. Out of a vast darkness in the south swung\nblacker abysses, where thunders breathed with a prolonged and terrible\nsighing; upon their flanks sheet-lightnings roamed.\n\nThere was no sound in the little bay. Beyond, a fathom of\nphosphorescence showed that mackerel were playing in the moonshine. Near\nthe trap-ledges, which ran into deep water sheer from the goat-pastures,\nwere many luminous moving phantoms: the medusae, green, purple, pale\nblue, wandering shapes filled with ghostly fire.\n\nWe stood a while in silence, then one of us spoke:\n\n\"Shall we put aside, for a brief while, this close fellowship of ours;\nand, since we cannot journey apart, go together to find if there be any\nlight upon those matters which trouble us, and perhaps discern things\nbetter separately than when trying, as we ever vainly do, to see the\nsame thing with the same eyes?\"\n\nThe others agreed. \"It may be I shall know,\" said one? \"It may be I\nshall remember,\" said the other.\n\n\"Then let us go back into the house and rest to-night, and to-morrow,\nafter we have slept and eaten well, we can set out with a light heart.\"\n\nThe others did not answer, for though to one food meant nothing, and to\nthe other sleep was both a remembering and a forgetting, each\nunwittingly felt the keen needs of him whom they despised overmuch, and\nfeared somewhat, and yet loved greatly.\n\n\nII\n\nThus it was that on a midsummer morning we set out alone and afoot, not\nbent for any one place, though we said we would go towards the dim blue\nhills in the west, the Hills of Dream, as we called them; but, rather,\nidly troubled by the very uncertainties which beset our going. We began\nthat long stepping westward as pilgrims of old who had the Holy City for\ntheir goal, but knew that midway were perilous lands.\n\nWe were three, as I have said: the Body, the Will, and the Soul. It was\nstrange for us to be walking there side by side, each familiar with and\nyet so ignorant of the other. We had so much in common, and yet were so\nincommunicably alien to one another. I think that occurred to each of\nus, as, with brave steps but sidelong eyes, we passed the fuchsia\nbushes, where the wild bees hummed, and round by the sea pastures, where\nwhite goats nibbled among the yellow flags, and shaggy kine with their\nwild hill-eyes browsed the thyme-sweet salted grass. A fisherman met us.\nIt was old Ian Macrae, whom I had known for many years. Somehow, till\nthen, the thought had not come to me that it might seem unusual to those\nwho knew my solitary ways, that I should be going to and fro with\nstrangers. Then, again for the first time, it flashed across me that\nthey were so like me--or save in the eyes I could myself discern no\ndifference--the likeness would be as startling as it would be\nunaccountable.\n\nI stood for a moment, uncertain. \"Of course,\" I muttered below my\nbreath, \"of course, the others are invisible; I had not thought of\nthat.\" I watched them slowly advance, for they had not halted when I\ndid. I saw them incline the head with a grave smile as they passed Ian.\nThe old man had taken off his bonnet to them, and had stood aside.\n\nStrangely disquieted, I moved towards Macrae.\n\n\"Ian,\" I whispered rather than spoke.\n\n\"Ay,\" he answered simply, looking at me with his grave, far-seeing eyes.\n\n\"Ian, have you seen my friends before?\"\n\n\"No, I have never seen them before.\"\n\n\"They have been here for--for--many days.\"\n\n\"I have not seen them.\"\n\n\"Tell me; do you recognise them?\"\n\n\"I have not seen them before.\"\n\n\"I mean, do you--do you see any likeness in them to any you know?\"\n\n\"No, I see no likeness.\"\n\n\"You are sure, Ian?\"\n\n\"Ay, for sure. And why not?\" The old fisherman looked at me with\nquestioning eyes.\n\n\"Tell me, Ian, do you see any difference in me?\"\n\n\"No, for sure, no.\"\n\nBewildered, I pondered this new mystery. Were we really three\npersonalities, without as well as within?\n\nAt that moment the Will turned. I heard his voice fall clearly along the\nheather-fragrant air-ledges.\n\n\"We, too, are bewildered by this mystery,\" he said.\n\nSo he knew my thought. It was _our_ thought. Yes, for now the Soul\nturned also; and I heard his sunwarm breath come across the\nhoneysuckles by the roadside.\n\n\"I, too, am bewildered by this mystery,\" he said.\n\n\"Ian,\" I exclaimed to the old man, who stared wonderingly at us; \"Ian\ntell me this: what like are my companions; how do they seem to you?\"\n\nThe old man glanced at me, startled, then rubbed his eyes as though he\nwere half-awakened from a dream.\n\n\"Why are you asking that thing?\"\n\n\"Because, Ian, you do not see any likeness in them to myself. I had\nthought--I had thought they were so like.\"\n\nMacrae put his wavering, wrinkled hand to his withered mouth. He gave a\nchuckling laugh.\n\n\"Ah, I understand now. It is a joke you are playing on old Ian.\"\n\n\"Maybe ay, and maybe no, Ian; but I do want to know how they seem to\nyou, those two yonder.\"\n\n\"Well, well, now, for sure, that friend of yours there, that spoke\nfirst, he is just a weary, tired old man, like I am myself, and so like\nme, now that I look at him, that he might be my wraith. And the other,\nhe is a fine lad, a fisher-lad for sure, though I fear God's gripped\nhis heart, for I see the old ancient sorrow in his eyes.\"\n\nI stared: then suddenly I understood.\n\n\"Good-day, Ian,\" I added hurriedly, \"and the blessing of Himself be upon\nyou and yours, and upon the nets and the boats.\"\n\nThen I moved slowly towards my companions, who awaited me. I understood\nnow. The old fisherman had seen after his own kind. The Will, the Soul,\nwhich for the first time had journeyed outside our common home, had to\ntake upon themselves bodily presences likewise. But these wavering\nimages were to others only the reflection of whoso looked upon them. Old\nIan had seen his own tired self and his lost youth. With a new fear the\nBody called to us, and we to him; and we were one, yet three; and so we\nwent onward together.\n\n\nIII\n\nWe were silent. It is not easy for three, so closely knit, so intimate,\nas we had been for so many years, suddenly to enter upon a new\ncomradeship, wherein three that had been as one were now several. A new\nreticence had come to each of us. We walked in silence--conscious of\nthe beauty of the day, in sea and sky and already purpling moors; of the\nwhite gulls flecking the azure, and the yellowhammers and stonechats\nflitting among the gorse and fragrant bog-myrtle--we knew that none was\ninclined to speak. Each had his own thoughts.\n\nThe three dreamers--for so we were in that lovely hour of dream--walked\nsteadfastly onward. It was not more than an hour after noon that we came\nto an inlet of the sea, so narrow that it looked like a stream, only\nthat a salt air arose between the irises which thickly bordered it, and\nthat the sunken rock-ledges were fragrant with sea-pink and the\nstone-convolvulus. The moving tidal water was grass-green, save where\ndusked with long, mauve shadows.\n\n\"Let us rest here,\" said the Body. \"It is so sweet in the sunlight, here\nby this cool water.\"\n\nThe Will smiled as he threw himself down upon a mossy slope that reached\nfrom an oak's base to the pebbly margins.\n\n\"It is ever so with you,\" he said, still smiling. \"You love rest, as the\nwandering clouds love the waving hand of the sun.\"\n\n\"What made you think of that?\" asked the Soul abruptly, who till that\nmoment had been rapt in silent commune with his inmost thoughts.\n\n\"Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"Because I, too, was thinking that just as the waving hand of the sun\nbeckons the white wandering clouds, as a shepherd calls to his scattered\nsheep, so there is a hand waving to us to press forward. Far away,\nyonder, a rainbow is being woven of sun and mist. Perhaps, there, we may\ncome upon that which we have come out to see.\"\n\n\"But the Body wishes to rest. And, truly, it is sweet here in the\nsunflood, and by this moving green water, which whispers in the reeds\nand flags, and sings its own sea-song the while.\"\n\n\"Let us rest, then.\"\n\nAnd, as we lay there, a great peace came upon us. There were hushed\ntears in the eyes of the Soul, and a dreaming smile upon the face of the\nWill, and, in the serene gaze of the Body, a content that was exceeding\nsweet. It was so welcome to lie there and dream. We knew a rare\nhappiness in that exquisite quietude.\n\nAfter a time, the Body rose, and moved to the water-edge.\n\n\"It is so lovely,\" he said, \"I must bathe\"--and with that he threw\naside his clothes, and stood naked among the reeds and yellow flags\nwhich bordered the inlet.\n\nThe sun shone upon his white body, the colour of pale ivory. A delicate\nshadow lightly touched him, now here, now there, from the sunlit green\nsheaths and stems among which he stood. He laughed out of sheer joy and\nraised his arms, and made a splashing with his trampling feet.\n\nLooking backward with a blithe glance, he cried:\n\n\"After all, it is good to be alive: neither to think nor to dream, but\njust content _to be_.\"\n\nReceiving no answer, he laughed merrily, and, plunging forward, swam\nseaward against the sun-dazzle.\n\nHis two companions watched him with shining eyes.\n\n\"Truly, he is very fair to look upon,\" said the Soul.\n\n\"Yes,\" added the Will, \"and perhaps he has chosen the better part\nelsewhere as here.\"\n\n\"Can it be the better part to prefer the things of the moment of those\nof Eternity?\"\n\n\"What is Eternity?\"\n\nFor a few seconds the Soul was silent. It was not easy for him to\nunderstand that what was a near horizon to him was a vague vista,\npossibly a mirage, to another. He was ever, in himself, moving just the\nhither side of the narrow mortal horizon which Eternity swims in upon\nfrom behind and beyond. The Will looked at him questioningly, then spoke\nagain:\n\n\"You speak of the things of Eternity. What is Eternity?\"\n\n\"Eternity is the Breath of God.\"\n\n\"That tells me nothing.\"\n\n\"It is Time, freed from his Mortality.\"\n\n\"Again, that tells me little. Or, rather, I am no wiser. What is\nEternity to _us_?\"\n\n\"It is our perpetuity.\"\n\n\"Then is it only a warrant against Death?\"\n\n\"No, it is more. Time is our sphere: Eternity is our home.\"\n\n\"There is no other lesson for you in the worm, and in the dust?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, brother?\"\n\n\"Does dissolution mean nothing to you?\"\n\n\"What is dissolution?\"\n\nIt was now the Will who stared with wondering eyes. To him that question\nwas as disquieting as that which he had asked the Soul. It was a minute\nbefore he spoke again.\n\n\"You ask me what is dissolution? Do you not understand what death means\nto _me_?\"\n\n\"Why to you more than to me, or to the Body?\"\n\n\"What is it to you?\"\n\n\"A change from a dream of Beauty, to Beauty.\"\n\n\"And at the worst?\"\n\n\"Freedom: escape from narrow walls--often dark and foul.\"\n\n\"In any case nothing but a change, a swift and absolute change, from\nwhat was to what is?\"\n\n\"Even so.\"\n\n\"And you have no fear?\"\n\n\"None. Why should I?\"\n\n\"Why should you not?\"\n\nAgain there was a sudden silence between the two. At last the Soul\nspoke:\n\n\"Why should I not? I cannot tell you. But I have no fear. I am a Son of\nGod.\"\n\n\"And we?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, dear brother: you, too, and the Body.\"\n\n\"But we perish!\"\n\n\"There is the resurrection of the Body.\"\n\n\"Where--when?\"\n\n\"As it is written. In God's hour.\"\n\n\"Is the worm also the Son of God?\"\n\nThe soul stared downward into the green water, but did not answer. A\nlook of strange trouble was in his eyes.\n\n\"Is not the Grave on the hither side of Eternity?\"\n\nStill no answer.\n\n\"Does God whisper beneath the Tomb?\"\n\nAt this the Soul rose, and moved restlessly to and fro.\n\n\"Tell me,\" resumed the Will, \"what is Dissolution?\"\n\n\"It is the returning into dust of that which was dust.\"\n\n\"And what is dust?\"\n\n\"The formless: the inchoate: the mass out of which the Potter makes new\nvessels, or moulds new shapes.\"\n\n\"But _you_ do not go into dust?\"\n\n\"I came from afar: afar I go again.\"\n\n\"But we--we shall be formless: inchoate?\"\n\n\"You shall be upbuilded.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\nThe Soul turned, and again sat by his comrade.\n\n\"I know not,\" he said simply.\n\n\"But if the Body go back to the dust, and the life that is in him be\nblown out like a wavering flame; and if you who came from afar, again\nreturn afar; what, then, for me, who am neither an immortal spirit nor\nyet of this frail human clan?\"\n\n\"God has need of you.\"\n\n\"When--where?\"\n\n\"How can I tell what I cannot even surmise?\"\n\n\"Tell me, tell me this: if I am so wedded to the Body that, if he\nperish, I perish also, what resurrection can there be for me?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\"\n\n\"Is it a resurrection for the Body if, after weeks, or years, or scores\nof years, his decaying dust is absorbed into the earth, and passes in a\nchemic change into the living world?\"\n\n\"No: that is not a resurrection: that is a transmutation.\"\n\n\"Yet that is all. There is nothing else possible. Dust unto dust. As\nwith the Body, so with the mind, the spirit of life, that which I am,\nthe Will. In the Grave there is no fretfulness any more: neither any\nsorrow, or joy, or any thought, or dream, or fear, or hope whatsoever.\nHath not God Himself said it, through the mouth of His prophet?\"\n\n\"I do not understand,\" murmured the Soul, troubled.\n\n\"Because the Grave is not your portion.\"\n\n\"But I, too, must know Death!\"\n\n\"Yes, truly--a change what was it?--a change from a dream of Beauty, to\nBeauty!\"\n\n\"God knows I would that we could go together--you, and he yonder, and I;\nor, if that cannot be, he being wholly mortal, then at the least you and\nI.\"\n\n\"But we cannot. At least, so it seems to us. But I--I too am alive, I\ntoo have dreams and visions, I too have joys and hopes, I too have\ndespairs. And for me--_nothing_. I am, at the end, as a blown flame.\"\n\n\"It may not be so. Something has whispered to me at times that you and I\nare to be made one.\"\n\n\"Tell me: can the immortal wed the mortal?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then how can we two wed, for I am mortal. My very life depends on the\nBody. A falling branch, a whelming wave, a sudden ill, and in a moment\nthat which was is not. He, the Body, is suddenly become inert,\nmotionless, cold, the perquisite of the Grave, the sport of the maggot\nand the worm: and I--I am a subsided wave, a vanished spiral of smoke, a\nlittle fugitive wind-eddy abruptly ended.\"\n\n\"You know not what is the end any more than I do. In a moment we are\ntranslated.\"\n\n\"Ah, is it so with you? O Soul, I thought that you had a profound\nsurety!\"\n\n\"I know nothing: I believe.\"\n\n\"Then it may be with you as with us?\"\n\n\"I know little: I believe.\"\n\n\"When I am well I believe in new, full, rich, wonderful life--in life in\nthe spiritual as well as the mortal sphere. And the Body, when he is\nill, he, too, thinks of that which is your heritage. But if _you_ are\nnot sure--if _you_ know nothing--may it not be that you, too, have fed\nupon dreams, and have dallied with Will-o'-the-wisp, and are an\nidle-blown flame even as I am, and have only a vaster spiritual outlook?\nMay it not be that you, O Soul, are but a spiritual nerve in the dark,\nconfused, brooding mind of Humanity? May it not be that you and I and\nthe Body go down unto one end?\"\n\n\"Not so. There is the word of God.\"\n\n\"We read it differently.\"\n\n\"Yet the Word remains.\"\n\n\"You believe in the immortal life?--You believe in Eternity?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then what is Eternity?\"\n\n\"Already you have asked me that!\"\n\n\"You believe in Eternity. What is Eternity?\"\n\n\"Continuity.\"\n\n\"And what are the things of Eternity?\"\n\n\"Immortal desires.\"\n\n\"Then what need for us who are mortal to occupy ourselves with what must\nbe for ever beyond us?\"\n\nThereat, with a harsh laugh, the Will arose, and throwing his garments\nfrom him, plunged into the sunlit green water, with sudden cries of joy\ncalling to the Body, who was still rejoicefully swimming in the\nsun-dazzle as he breasted the tide.\n\nAn hour later we rose, and, silent again, once more resumed our way.\n\n\nIV\n\nIt was about the middle of the afternoon that we moved inland, because\nof a difficult tract of cliff and bouldered shore. We followed the\ncourse of a brown torrent, and were soon under the shadow of the\nmountain. The ewes and lambs made incessantly that mournful crying,\nwhich in mountain solitudes falls from ledge to ledge as though it were\nno other than the ancient sorrow of the hills.\n\nThence we emerged, walking among boulders green with moss and grey with\nlichen, often isled among bracken and shadowed by the wind-wavering\nbirches, or the finger-leafed rowans already heavy with clusters of\nruddy fruit. Sometimes we spoke of things which interested us: of the\nplay of light and shadow in the swirling brown torrent along whose banks\nwe walked, and by whose grayling-haunted pools we lingered often, to\nlook at the beautiful shadowy unrealities of the perhaps not less\nshadowy reality which they mirrored: of the solemn dusk of the pines; of\nthe mauve shadows which slanted across the scanty corn that lay in green\npatches beyond lonely crofts; of the travelling purple phantoms of\nphantom clouds, to us invisible, over against the mountain-breasts; of a\nsolitary seamew, echoing the wave in that inland stillness.\n\nAll these things gave us keen pleasure. The Body often laughed joyously,\nand talked of chasing the shadow till it should turn and leap into him,\nand he be a wild creature of the woods again, and be happy, knowing\nnothing but the incalculable hour. It is an old belief of the Gaelic\nhill-people.\n\n\"If one yet older be true,\" said the Will, speaking to the Soul, \"you\nand Shadow are one and the same. Nay, the mystery of the Trinity is\nsymbolised here again--as in us three; for there is an ancient forgotten\nword of an ancient forgotten people, which means alike the Breath, the\nShadow, and the Soul.\"[1]\n\nAs we walked onward we became more silent. It was about the sixth hour\nfrom noon that we saw a little coast-town lying amid green pastures,\noverhung, as it seemed, by the tremulous blue band of the sea-line. The\nBody was glad, for here were friends, and he wearied for his kind. The\nWill and the Soul, too, were pleased, for now they shared the common lot\nof mortality, and knew weariness as well as hunger and thirst. So we\nmoved towards the blue smoke of the homes.\n\n\"The home of a wild dove, a branch swaying in the wind, is sweet to it;\nand the green bracken under a granite rock is home to a tired hind; and\nso we, who are wayfarers idler than these, which blindly obey the law,\nmay well look to yonder village as our home for to-night.\"\n\nSo spoke the Soul.\n\nThe Body laughed blithely. \"Yes,\" he added, \"it is a cheerier home than\nthe green bracken. Tell me, have you ever heard of The Three Companions\nof Night?\"\n\n\"The Three Companions of Night? I would take them to be Prayer, and\nHope, and Peace.\"\n\n\"So says the Soul--but what do _you_ say, O Will?\"\n\n\"I would take them to be Dream, and Rest, and Longing.\"\n\n\"We are ever different,\" replied the Body, with a sigh, \"for the Three\nCompanions of whom I speak are Laughter, and Wine, and Love.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we mean the same thing,\" muttered the Will, with a smile of\nbitter irony.\n\nWe thought much of these words as we passed down a sandy lane hung with\nhoneysuckles, which were full of little birds who made a sweet\nchittering.\n\nPrayer, and Hope, and Peace; Dream, and Rest, and Longing; Laughter, and\nWine, and Love: were these analogues of the Heart's Desire?\n\nWhen we left the lane, where we saw a glow-worm emitting a pale fire as\nhe moved through the green dusk in the shadow of the hedge, we came upon\na white devious road. A young man stood by a pile of stones. He stopped\nhis labour and looked at us. One of us spoke to him.\n\n\"Why is it that a man like yourself, young and strong, should be doing\nthis work, which is for broken men?\"\n\n\"Why are you breathing?\" he asked abruptly.\n\n\"We breathe to live,\" answered the Body, smiling blithely.\n\n\"Well, I break stones to live.\"\n\n\"Is it worth it?\"\n\n\"It's better than death.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Body slowly, \"it is better than death.\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" asked the Soul, \"why is it better than death?\"\n\n\"Who wants not to want?\"\n\n\"Ah--it is the need to want, then, that is strongest!\"\n\nThe stone-breaker looked sullenly at the speaker.\n\n\"If you're not anxious to live,\" he said, \"will you give me what money\nyou have? It is a pity good money should be wasted. I know well where I\nwould be spending it this night of the nights,\" he added abruptly in\nGaelic.\n\nThe Body looked at him with curious eyes.\n\n\"And where would you be spending it?\" he asked, in the same language.\n\n\"This is the night of the marriage of John Macdonald, the rich man from\nAmerica, who has come back to his own town, and is giving a big night of\nit to all his friends, and his friends' friends.\"\n\n\"Is that the John Macdonald who is marrying Elsie Cameron?\" demanded the\nBody eagerly.\n\n\"Ay, the same; though it may be the other daughter of Alastair Rua, the\ngirl Morag.\"\n\nA flush rose to the face of the Body. His eyes sparkled.\n\n\"It is Elsie,\" he said to the man.\n\n\"Belike,\" the stone-breaker muttered indifferently.\n\n\"Do you know where Alastair Rua and his daughters are?\"\n\n\"Yes, at Beann Marsanta Macdonald's big house of the One-Ash Farm.\"\n\n\"Can you show me the way?\"\n\n\"I'm going that way.\"\n\nThereat the Body turned to his comrades:\n\n\"I love her,\" he said simply; \"I love Morag Cameron.\"\n\n\"She is not for your loving,\" answered the Will sharply; \"for she has\ngiven troth to old Archibald Sinclair.\"\n\nThe Body laughed.\n\n\"Love is love,\" he said lightly.\n\n\"Come,\" interrupted the Soul wearily; \"we have loitered long enough. Let\nus go.\"\n\nWe stood looking at the stone-breaker, who was gazing curiously at us.\nSuddenly he laughed.\n\n\"Why do you laugh?\" asked the Soul.\n\n\"Well, I'm not for knowing that. But I'll tell you this: if you two wish\nto go into the town, you have only to follow this road. And if _you_\nwant to come to One-Ash Farm, then you must come this other way with\nme.\"\n\n\"Do not go,\" whispered the Soul.\n\nBut the Body, with an impatient gesture, drew aside. \"Leave me,\" he\nadded: \"I wish to go with this man. I will meet you to-morrow morning at\nthe first bridge to the westward of the little town yonder, just where\nthe stream slackens over the pebbles.\"\n\nWith reluctant eyes the two companions saw their comrade leave. For a\nlong time the Will watched him with a bitter smile. Redeeming love was\nin the longing eyes of the Soul.\n\nWhen the Body and the stone-breaker were alone, as they walked towards\nthe distant farm-steading, where already were lights, and whence came a\nlowing of kye in the byres, for it was the milking hour, they spoke at\nintervals.\n\n\"Who were those with you?\" asked the man.\n\n\"Friends. We have come away together.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Well, as you would say, to see the world.\"\n\n\"To see the world?\" The man laughed. \"To see the world! Have you money?\"\n\n\"Enough for our needs.\"\n\n\"Then you will see nothing. The world gives to them that already have,\nan' more than have.\"\n\n\"What do you hope for to-night?\"\n\n\"To be drunk.\"\n\n\"That is a poor thing to hope for. Better to think of the laugh and the\njoke by the fireside; and of food and drink, too, if you will: of the\npipes, and dancing, and pretty girls.\"\n\n\"Do as you like. As for me, I hope to be drunk.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Why? Because I'll be another man then. I'll have forgotten all that I\nnow remember from sunrise to sundown. Can you think what it is to break\na hope in your heart each time you crack a stone on the roadside?\nThat's what I am, a stone-breaker, an' I crack stones inside as well as\noutside. It's a stony place my heart, God knows.\"\n\n\"You are young to speak like that, and you speak like a man who has\nknown better days.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm ancient enough,\" said the man, with a short laugh.\n\n\"What meaning does that have?\"\n\n\"What meaning? Well, it just means this, that I'm as old as the Bible.\nFor there's mention o' me there. Only there I'm herding swine, an' here\nI'm breaking stones.\"\n\n\"And is _your_ father living?\"\n\n\"Ay, he curses me o' Sabbaths.\"\n\n\"Then it's not the same as the old story that is in the Bible?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing's the same an' everything's the same--except when you're\ndrunk, an' then it's only the same turned outside in. But see, yonder's\nthe farm. Take my advice, an' drink. It's better than the fireside, it's\nbetter than food, it's better than kisses, ay it's better than love,\nit's as good as hate, an' it's the only thing you can drown in except\ndespair.\"\n\nSoon after this the Body entered the house of the Beann Marsanta\nMacdonald, and with laughter and delight met Morag Cameron, and others\nwhom his heart leaped to see.\n\nAt midnight, the Will sat in a room in a little inn, and read out of two\nbooks, now out of one, now out of the other. The one was the Gaelic\nBible, the other was in English and was called _The One Hope_.\n\nHe rose, as the village clock struck twelve, and went to the window. A\nsalt breath, pungent with tide-stranded seaweed, reached him. In the\nlittle harbour, thin shadowy masts ascended like smoke and melted. A\ngreen lantern swung from one. The howling of a dog rose and fell. A\nfaint lapping of water was audible. On a big fishing-coble some men were\nlaughing and cursing.\n\nOverhead was an oppressive solemnity. The myriad stars were as the\nincalculable notes of a stilled music, become visible in silence. It was\na relief to look into unlighted deeps.\n\n\"These idle lances of God pierce the mind, slay the spirit,\" the Will\nmurmured, staring with dull anger at the white multitude.\n\n\"If the Soul were here,\" he added bitterly, \"he would look at these\nglittering mockeries as though they were harbingers of eternal hope. To\nme they are whited sepulchres. They say _we live_, to those who die;\nthey say _God endures,_ to Man that perisheth; they whisper the Immortal\nHope to Mortality.\" Turning, he went back to where he had left the\nbooks. He lifted one, and read:--\n\n\"_Have we not the word of God Himself that Time and Chance happeneth to\nall: that soon or late we shall all be caught in a net, we whom Chance\nhath for his idle sport, and upon whom Time trampleth with impatient\nfeet? Verily, the rainbow is not more frail, more fleeting, than this\ndrear audacity._\"\n\nWith a sigh he put the book down, and lifted the other. Having found the\npage he sought, he read slowly aloud:--\n\n\"_... but Time and Chance happeneth to them all. For man also knoweth\nnot his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the\nbirds that are caught in the snare, even so are the sons of men snared\nin an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them._\"\n\nHe went to the window again, brooding darkly. A slight sound caught his\near. He saw a yellow light run out, leap across the pavement and pass\nlike a fan of outblown flame. Then the door closed, and we heard a step\non the stone flags. He looked down. The Soul was there.\n\n\"Are you restless? Can you not sleep?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, dear friend. But my heart is weary because of the Body. Yet before\nI go, let me bid you read that which follows upon what you have just\nread. It is not only Time and Chance upon which to dwell; but upon this,\nthat God knows that which He does, and the hour and the way, and sees\nthe end in the beginning.\"\n\nAnd while the Soul moved softly down the little windy street, the Will\nopened the Book again, and read as the Soul had bidden.\n\n\"It may be so,\" he muttered, \"it may be that the dreamer may yet wake to\nbehold his dream--As thou knowest not what is the way of the wind, even\nso thou knowest not the work of God Who doeth all?\"\n\nWith that he sighed wearily, and then, afraid to look again at the\nbitter eloquence of the stars, lit a candle as he lay down on his bed,\nand watched the warm companionable flame till sleep came upon him, and\nhe dreamed no more of the rue and cypress, but plucked amaranths in the\nmoonshine.\n\nMeanwhile the Soul walked swiftly to the outskirts of the little town,\nand out by the grassy links where clusters of white geese huddled in\nsleep, and across the windy common where a tethered ass stood, with\ndrooping head, his long, twitching ears now motionless. In the\nmoonlight, the shadow of the weary animal stretched to fantastic\nlengths, and at one point, when the startled Soul looked at it, he\nbeheld the shadow of the Cross.\n\nWhen he neared One-Ash Farm he heard a loud uproar from within. Many\ncouples were still dancing, and the pipes and a shrill flute added to\nthe tumult. Others sang and laughed, or laughed and shouted, or cursed\nhoarsely. Through the fumes of smoke and drink rippled women's laughter.\n\nHe looked in at a window, with sad eyes. The first glance revealed to\nhim the Body, his blue eyes aflame, his face flushed with wine, his left\narm holding close to his heart a bright winsome lass, with hair\ndishevelled, and wild eyes, but with a wonderful laughing eagerness of\njoy.\n\nIn vain he called. His voice was suddenly grown faint. But what the ear\ncould not hear, the heart heard. The Body rose abruptly.\n\n\"I will drink no more,\" he said.\n\nA loud insensate laugh resounded near him. The stone-breaker lounged\nheavily from a bench, upon the servant's table.\n\n\"I am drunk now, my friend,\" the man cried with flaming eyes. \"I am\ndrunk, an' now I am as reckless as a king, an' as serene as the Pope,\nan' as heedless as God.\"\n\nThe Soul turned his gaze and looked at him. He saw a red flame rising\nfrom grey ashes. The ashes were his heart. The flame was his impotent,\nperishing life.\n\nStricken with sorrow, the Soul went to the door, and entered. He went\nstraight to the stone-breaker, who was now lying with head and arms\nprone on the deal table.\n\nHe whispered in the drunkard's ear. The man lifted his head, and stared\nwith red, brutish eyes.\n\n\"What is that?\" he cried.\n\n\"Your mother was pure and holy. She died to give you her life. What will\nit be like on the day she asks for it again?\"\n\nThe man raised an averting arm. There was a stare of horror in his eyes.\n\n\"I know you, you devil. Your name is Conscience.\"\n\nThe Soul looked at the Speaker. \"I do not know,\" he answered simply;\n\"but I believe in God.\"\n\n\"In the love of God?\"\n\n\"In the love of God.\"\n\n\"He dwells everywhere?\"\n\n\"Everywhere.\"\n\n\"Then I will find Him, I will find His love, _here_\"--and with that the\nman raised the deathly spirit to his lips again, and again drank. Then,\nlaughing and cursing, he threw the remainder at the feet of his unknown\nfriend.\n\n\"Farewell!\" he shouted hoarsely, so that those about him stared at him\nand at the new-comer.\n\nThe Soul turned sadly, and looked for his strayed comrade, but he was\nnowhere to be seen. In a room upstairs that friend whom he loved was\nwhispering eager vows of sand and wind; and the girl Morag, clinging\nclose to him, tempted him as she herself was tempted, so that both stood\nin that sand, and in the intertangled hair of each that wind blew.\n\nThe Soul saw, and understood. None spoke to him, a stranger, as he went\nslowly from the house, though all were relieved when that silent,\nsad-eyed foreigner withdrew.\n\nOutside, the cool sea-wind fell freshly upon him. He heard a corncrake\ncalling harshly to his mate, where the corn was yellowing in a little\nstone-dyked field; and a night-jar creeping forward on a juniper,\nuttering his whirring love-note; and he blessed their sweet, innocent\nlust. Then, looking upward, he watched for a while the white procession\nof the stars. They were to him the symbolic signs of the mystery of God.\nHe bowed his head. \"Dust of the world,\" he muttered humbly, \"dust of\nthe world.\"\n\nMoving slowly by the house--so doubly noisy, so harshly discordant,\nagainst the large, serene, nocturnal life--he came against the gable of\nan open window. On the ledge lay a violin, doubtless discarded by some\nreveller. The Soul lifted it, and held it up to the night-wind. When it\nwas purified, and the vibrant wood was as a nerve in that fragrant\ndarkness, he laid it on his shoulder and played softly.\n\nWhat was it that he played? Many heard it, but none knew what the strain\nwas, or whence it came. The Soul remembered, and played. It is enough.\n\nThe soft playing stole into the house as though it were the cool\nsea-wind, as though it were the flowing dusk. Beautiful, unfamiliar\nsounds, and sudden silences passing sweet, filled the rooms. The last\nguests left hurriedly, hushed, strangely disquieted. The dwellers in the\nfarmstead furtively bade good-night, and slipt away.\n\nFor an hour, till the sinking of the moon, the Soul played. He played\nthe Song of Dreams, the Song of Peace, the three Songs of Mystery. The\nevil that was in the house ebbed. Everywhere, at his playing, the\nsecret obscure life awoke. Nimble aerial creatures swung, invisibly\npassive, in the quiet dark. From the brown earth, from hidden\nsanctuaries in rocks and trees, green and grey lives slid, and stood\nintent. Out of the hillside came those of old. There were many eager\nvoices, like leaves lapping in a wind. The wild-fox lay down, with red\ntongue lolling idly: the stag rose from the fern, with dilated nostrils;\nthe night-jar ceased, the corncrake ceased, the moon-wakeful thrushes\nmade no single thrilling note. The silence deepened. Sleep came stealing\nsoftly out of the obscure, swimming dusk. There was not a swaying reed,\na moving leaf. The strange company of shadows stood breathless. Among\nthe tree-tops the loosened stars shone terribly--lonely fires of\nsilence.\n\nThe Soul played. Once he thought of the stone-breaker. He played into\nhis heart. The man stirred, and tears oozed between his heavy lids. It\nwas his mother's voice that he heard, singing-low a cradle-sweet song,\nand putting back her white hair that she might look earthward to her\nlove. \"Grey sweetheart, grey sweetheart,\" he moaned. Then his heart\nlightened, and a moonlight of peace hallowed that solitary waste place.\n\nAgain, at the last, the Soul thought of his comrade, heavy with wine in\nthe room overhead, drunken with desire. And to him he played the\nimperishable beauty of Beauty, the Immortal Love, so that, afterwards,\nhe should remember the glory rather than the shame of his poor frailty.\nWhat he played to the girl's heart only those women know who hear the\nwhispering words of Mary the Mother in sleep, when a second life\nbreathes beneath each breath.\n\nWhen he ceased, deep slumber was a balm upon all. He fell upon his knees\nand prayed.\n\n\"Beauty of all Beauty,\" he prayed, \"let none perish without thee.\"\n\nIt was thus that we three, who were one, realised how Prayer and Hope\nand Peace, how Dream and Rest and Longing, how Laughter and Wine and\nLove, are in truth but shadowy analogues of the Heart's Desire.\n\n\nV\n\nAt dawn we woke. A movement of gladness was in the lovely tides of\nmorning--delicate green, and blue, and gold. The spires of the grasses\nwere washed in dew; the innumerous was as one green flower that had lain\nall night in the moonshine.\n\nWe had agreed to meet at the bridge over the stream where it lapsed\nthrough gravelly beaches just beyond the little town.\n\nThere the Soul and the Will long awaited the Body. The sun was an hour\nrisen, and had guided a moving multitude of gold and azure waters\nagainst the long reaches of yellow-poppied sand, and to the bases of the\ngreat cliffs, whose schist shone like chrysolite, and whose dreadful\nbastions of black basalt loomed in purple shadow, like suspended\nthunder-clouds on a windless afternoon.\n\nThe air was filled with the poignant sweetness of the loneroid or\nbog-myrtle, meadow-sweet, and white wild-roses. The green smell of the\nbracken, the delicate woodland odour of the mountain-ash, floated\nhitherward and thitherward on the idle breath of the wind, sunwarm when\nit came across the sea-pinks and thyme-set grass, cool and fresh when it\neddied from the fern-coverts, or from the heather above the\nhillside-boulders where the sheep lay, or from under the pines at the\nbend of the sea-road where already the cooing of grey doves made an\nindolent sweetness.\n\nThe Soul was silent. He had not slept, but, after his playing in the\ndark, peace had come to him.\n\nBefore dawn he had gone into the room where the Will lay, and had\nlooked long at his comrade. In sleep the Will more resembled him, as\nwhen awake he the more resembled the Body. A deep pity had come upon the\nSoul for him whom he loved so well, but knew so little.\n\nWhy was it, he wondered, that he felt less alien from the Body? Why was\nit that this strange, potent, inscrutable being, whom both loved, should\nbe so foreign to each? The Body feared him. As for himself, he, too,\nfeared him at times. There were moments when all his marvellous\nbackground of the immortal life shrank before the keen gaze of his\nfriend. Was it possible that Mind could have a life apart from mortal\nsubstances? Was it possible? If so----\n\nIt was here that the Will awoke, and smiled at his friend.\n\nHe gave no greeting, but answered his thought.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said gravely, and as though continuing an argument, \"it is\nimpossible, if you mean the mortal substance of our brother, the Body.\nBut yet not without material substance. May it not be that the Mind may\nhave an undreamed-of shaping power, whereby it can instantly create?\"\n\n\"Create what?\"\n\n\"A new environment for its need? Drown it in the deepest gulfs of the\nsea, and it will, at the moment it is freed from the body, sheathe\nitself in a like shape, and habit itself with free spaces of air, so\nthat it may breathe, and live, and emerge into the atmosphere, there to\ntake on a new shape, to involve itself in new circumstances, to live\nanew?\"\n\n\"It is possible. But would that sea-change leave the mind the same or\nanother?\"\n\n\"The Mind would come forth one and incorruptible.\"\n\n\"If in truth, the Mind be an indivisible essence?\"\n\n\"Yes, if the mind be one and indivisible.\"\n\n\"You believe it so?\"\n\n\"Tell me, are you insubstantial? You, yourself, below this accident of\nmortality?\"\n\n\"I know not what you mean.\"\n\n\"You were wondering if, after all, it were possible for me to have a\nlife, a conscious, individual continuity, apart from this mortal\nsubstance in which you and I now share--counterparts of that human home\nwe both love and hate, that moving tent of the Illimitable, which at\nbirth appears a speck on sands of the Illimitable, and at death again\nabruptly disappears. You were wondering this. But, tell me: have you\nyourself never wondered how you can exist, as yourself, apart from\nsomething of this very actuality, this form, this materialism to which\nyou find yourself so alien in the Body?\"\n\n\"I am spirit. I am a breath.\"\n\n\"But you are you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am I.\"\n\n\"The surpassing egotism is the same, whether in you, the Soul, who are\nbut a breath; or in me, the Will, who am but a condition; or in our\nbrother, the Body, a claimant to Eternal Life while perishing in his\nmortality!\"\n\n\"I live in God. Whence I came, thither shall I return.\"\n\n\"A breath?\"\n\n\"It may be.\"\n\n\"Yet you shall be you?\"\n\n\"Yes; I.\"\n\n\"Then that breath which will be you must have form, even as the Body\nmust have form.\"\n\n\"Form is but the human formula for the informulate.\"\n\n\"Nay, Form _is_ life.\"\n\n\"You have ever one wish, it seems to me, O Will: to put upon me the\nheavy yoke of mortality.\"\n\n\"Not so: but to lift it from myself.\"\n\n\"And the Body?\"\n\n\"Where did you leave him last night?\"\n\n\"You remember what he said about the Three Companions of Night:\nLaughter, and Wine, and Love? I left him with these.\"\n\n\"They are also called Tears, and Weariness, and the Grave. He has his\nportion. Perhaps he does well. Death intercepts many retributions.\"\n\n\"He, too, has his dream within a dream.\"\n\n\"Yes, you played to it, in the silence and the darkness.\"\n\n\"You heard my playing--you here, I there?\"\n\n\"I heard.\"\n\n\"And did you sleep or wake, comforted?\"\n\n\"I heard a Wind. I have heard it often. I heard, too, my own voice\nsinging in the dark.\"\n\n\"What was the song?\"\n\n\"This:--\n\n    In the silences of the woods\n    I have heard all day and all night\n    The moving multitudes\n    Of the Wind in flight.\n    He is named Myriad:\n    And I am sad\n    Often, and often I am glad;\n    But oftener I am white\n    With fear of the dim broods\n    That are his multitudes.\"\n\n\"And then, when you had heard that song?\"\n\n\"There was a rush of wings. My hair streamed behind me. Then a sudden\nstillness, out of which came moonlight; and a star fell slowly through\nthe dark, and as it passed my face I felt lips pressed against mine, and\nit seemed to me that you kissed me.\"\n\n\"And when I kissed you, did I whisper any word?\"\n\n\"You whispered: '_I am the Following Love._'\"\n\n\"And you knew then that it was the Breath of God, and you had deep\npeace, and slept?\"\n\n\"I knew that it was the Following Love,--that is the Breath of God, and\nI had deep peace, and I slept.\"\n\nThe Soul crossed from the window to the bed, and stooped, and kissed the\nWill.\n\n\"Beloved,\" he whispered, \"the star was but a dewdrop of the Peace that\npasseth understanding. And can it be that to you, to whom the healing\ndew was vouchsafed, shall be denied the water-springs?\"\n\n\"Ah, beautiful dreamer of dreams, bewilder me no more with your lovely\nsophistries. See, it is already late, and we have to meet the Body at\nthe shore-bridge over the little stream!\"\n\n\nIt was then that the two, having had a spare meal of milk and new bread,\nleft the inn, and went, each communing with his own thoughts, to the\nappointed place.\n\nThey heard the Body before they saw him, for he was singing as he came.\nIt was a strange, idle fragment of a song--\"The Little Children of the\nWind\"--a song that some one had made, complete in its incompleteness, as\na wind-blown blossom, and, as a blossom discarded by a flying bird,\nthrown heedlessly on the wayside by its unknown wandering singer:--\n\n    I hear the little children of the wind\n    Crying solitary in lonely places:\n    I have not seen their faces,\n    But I have seen the leaves eddying behind,\n    The little tremulous leaves of the wind.\n\nThe Soul looked at the Will.\n\n\"So he, too, has heard the Wind,\" he said softly.\n\n\nVI\n\nAll that day we journeyed westward. Sometimes we saw, far off, the pale\nblue films of the Hills of Dream, those elusive mountains towards which\nour way was set. Sometimes they were so startlingly near that, from\ngorse upland or inland valley, we thought we saw the shadow-grass shake\nin the wind's passage, or smelled the thyme still wet with dew where it\nlay under the walls of mountain-boulders. But at noon we were no nearer\nthan when, at sunrise, we had left the little sea-town behind us: and\nwhen the throng of bracken-shadows filled the green levels between the\nfern and the pines--like flocks of sheep following fantastic\nherdsmen--the Hills of the West were still as near, and as far, as the\nbright raiment of the rainbow which the shepherd sees lying upon his\nlonely pastures.\n\nBut long before noon we were glad because of what happened to one of us.\n\nThe dawn had flushed into a wilderness of rose as we left the bridge by\nthe stream. Long shafts of light, plumed with pale gold, were flung up\nout of the east: everywhere was the tremulous awakening of the new day.\nA score of yards from the highway a cottage stood, sparrows stirring in\nthe thatch, swift fairy-spiders running across the rude white-washed\nwalls, a redbreast singing in the dew-drenched fuchsia-bush. The blue\npeat-smoke which rose above it was so faint as to be invisible beyond\nthe rowan which stood sunways. The westward part of the cottage was a\nbyre: we could hear the lowing of a cow, the clucking of fowls.\n\nIn every glen, on each hillside, are crofts such as this. There was\nnothing unusual in what we saw, save that a collie crouched whimpering\nbeyond a dyke on the farther side of the rowan.\n\n\"All is not well here,\" said the Will.\n\n\"No,\" murmured the Soul, \"I see the shadowy footsteps of those who serve\nthe Evil One. Await me here.\"\n\nWith that the Soul walked swiftly towards the cottage, and looked in at\nthe little window. His thought was straightway ours, and we knew that a\nwoman lay within and was about to give birth to a child. We knew, also,\nthat those who had dark, cruel eyes, and wore each the feather of a\nhawk, had no power within, but were baffled, and roamed restlessly\noutside the cottage on the side of shadow. The _Fuath_ himself was not\nthere, but when his call came the evil spirits rose like a flock of\ncrows and passed away. Then we saw our comrade stand back, and bow down,\nand fall upon his knees.\n\nWhen he rejoined us we were for a moment as one, and saw seven tall and\nbeautiful spirits, starred and flame-crested, hand-clasped and standing\ncirclewise round the cottage. They were Sons of Joy, who sang because in\nthat mortal hour was born an immortal soul who in the white flame and\nthe red of mortal life was to be a spirit of gladness and beauty. For\nthere is no joy in the domain of the Spirit like that of the birth of a\nnew joy.\n\nA long while we walked in silence. In the eyes of the Soul we saw a\ndivine and beautiful light: in the eyes of the Will we saw\nrainbow-spanned depths: in the eyes of the Body we saw gladness.\n\n\"We are one!\"\n\nNone knew who spoke. For a moment I heard my own voice, saw my own\nshadow in the grass; then, in the twinkling of an eye, three stood,\nlooking at each other with startled gaze.\n\n\"Let us go,\" said the Soul; \"we have a long way yet to travel.\"\n\nEach dreaming his own dream, we walked onward. Suddenly the Soul turned\nand looked in the eyes of the Body.\n\n\"You are thinking of your loneliness,\" he said gravely.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the Body.\n\n\"And I too,\" said the Will.\n\nFor a time no word more was said.\n\n\"I am indeed alone.\" This I murmured to myself after a long while, and\nin a moment the old supreme wisdom sank, and we were not one but three.\n\n\"But you, O Soul,\" said the Will, \"how can you be alone when in every\nhour you have the company of the invisible, and see the passage of\npowers and influence, of demons and angels, creatures of the triple\nuniverse, souls, and the pale flight of the unembodied?\"\n\n\"I do not know loneliness because of what I see or do not see, but\nbecause of what I feel. When I walk here with you side by side it is as\nthough I walked along a narrow shore between a fathomless sea and\nfathomless night.\"\n\nThe thought of one was the thought of three. I shivered with that great\nloneliness. The Body glanced sidelong at the Will, the Will at the Soul.\n\n\"It is not good to dwell upon that loneliness,\" said the last.\n\n\"To you, O Body, and to you, O Will, as to me, it is the signal of Him\nwhom we have lost. Listen, and in the deepest hollow of loneliness we\ncan hear the voice of the Shepherd.\"\n\n\"I hear nothing,\" said the Body.\n\n\"I hear an echo,\" said the Will: \"I hear an echo; but so, too, I can\nhear the authentic voice of the sea in a hollow shell. Authentic! ...\nwhen I know well that the murmur is no eternal voice, no whisper of the\nwave made one with pearly silence, but only the sound of my flowing\nblood heard idly in the curves of ear and shell?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" ... cried the Body, \"it is a lie, that cruel word of science. The\nshell must ever murmur of the sea; if not, at least let us dream that it\ndoes. Soon, soon we shall have no dream left. How am I to know that\n_all_, that everything, is not but an idle noise in my ears? How am I to\nknow that the Hope of the Will, and the Voice of the Soul, and the\nmessage of the Word, and the Whisper of the Eternal Spirit, are not one\nand all but a mocking echo in that shell which for me is the Shell of\nLife, but may be only the cold inhabitation of my dreams?\"\n\n\"Yet were it not for these echoes,\" the Soul answered, \"life would be\nintolerable for you, as for you too, my friend.\"\n\nThe Will smiled scornfully.\n\n\"Dreams are no comfort, no solace, no relief from weariness even, if one\nknows them to be no more than the spray above the froth of a distempered\nmind.\"\n\nSuddenly one of us began in a low voice a melancholy little song:--\n\n    I hear the sea-song of the blood in my heart,\n    I hear the sea-song of the blood in my ears;\n    And I am far apart,\n    And lost in the years.\n\n    But when I lie and dream of that which was\n    Before the first man's shadow flitted on the grass--\n    I am stricken dumb\n    With sense of that to come.\n\n    Is then this wildering sea-song but a part\n    Of the old song of the mystery of the years--\n    Or only the echo of the tired Heart\n    And of Tears?\n\nBut none answered, and so again we walked onward, silent. The wind had\nfallen, and in the noon-heat we began to grow weary. It was with relief\nthat we saw the gleam of water between the branches of a little wood of\nbirches, which waded towards it through a tide of bracken. Beyond the\nbirks shimmered a rainbow; a stray cloud had trailed from glen to glen,\nand suddenly broken among the tree-tops.\n\n\"There goes Yesterday!\" cried the Body laughingly--alluding to the\nsaying that the morning rainbow is the ghost of the day that passed at\ndawn. The next moment he broke into a fragment of song:--\n\n    Brother and Sister, wanderers they\n    Out of the Golden Yesterday--\n    Thro' the dusty Now and the dim To-morrow\n    Hand-in-hand go Joy and Sorrow.\n\n\"Yes, joy and sorrow, O glad Body,\" exclaimed the Will--\"but it is the\njoy only that is vain as the rainbow, which has no other message. It\nshould be called the Bow of Sorrow.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said the Soul gently, \"or, if so, not as you mean, dear\nfriend:--\n\n    It is not Love that gives the clearest sight:\n    For out of bitter tears, and tears unshed,\n    Riseth the Rainbow of Sorrow overhead,\n    And 'neath the Rainbow is the clearest light.\n\nThe Will smiled:--\n\n\"I too must have my say, dear poets:--\n\n    Where rainbows rise through sunset rains\n      By shores forlorn of isles forgot,\n    A solitary Voice complains\n      'The World is here, the World is not.'\n\n    The Voice may be the wind, or sea,\n      Or spirit of the sundown West:\n    Or, mayhap, some sweet air set free\n      From off the Islands of the Blest:\n\n    It may be; but I turn my face\n      To that which still I hold so dear;\n    And lo, the voices of the days--\n      'The World is not, the World is here.'\n\n    'Tis the same end whichever way\n      And either way is soon forgot:\n    The World is all in all, To-day:\n      'To-morrow all the World is not.'\n\n\nVII\n\nIn the noon-heat we lay, for rest and coolness, by the pool, and on the\nshadow-side of a hazel. The water was of so dark a brown that we knew it\nwas of a great depth, and, indeed, even at the far verge, a heron,\nstanding motionless, wetted her breast-feathers.\n\nIn the mid-pool, where the brown lawns sloped into depths of\npurple-blue, we could see a single cloud, invisible otherwise where we\nlay. Nearer us, the water mirrored a mountain-ash heavy with ruddy\nclusters. That long, feathery foliage, that reddening fruit, hung in a\nstrange, unfamiliar air; the stranger, that amid the silence of those\nphantom branches ever and again flitted furtive shadow-birds.\n\nWe had walked for hours, and were now glad to rest. With us we had\nbrought oaten bread and milk, and were well content.\n\n\"It was by a pool such as this,\" said one of us, after a long interval,\n\"that dreamers of old called to Connla, and Connla heard. That was the\nmortal name of one whose name we know not.\"\n\n\"Call him now,\" whispered the Body eagerly.\n\nThe Soul leaned forward, and stared into the fathomless brown dusk.\n\n\"Speak, Connla! Who art thou?\"\n\nClear as a Sabbath-bell across windless pastures we heard a voice:\n\n\"I am of those who wait yet a while. I am older than all age, for my\nyouth is Wisdom; and I am younger than all youth, for I am named\nTo-morrow.\"\n\nWe heard no more. In vain, together, separately, we sought to break that\nsilence which divides the mortal moment from hourless time. The Soul\nhimself could not hear, or see, or even remember, because of that mortal\nraiment of the flesh which for a time he had voluntarily taken upon\nhimself.\n\n\"I will tell you a dream that is not all a dream,\" he said at last,\nafter we had lain a long while pondering what that voice had uttered,\nthat voice which showed that the grave held a deeper mystery than\nsilence.\n\nThe Will looked curiously at him.\n\n\"Is it a dream wherein we have shared?\" he asked slowly.\n\n\"That I know not: yet it may well be so. I call my dream 'The Sons of\nJoy.' If you or the Body have also dreamed, let each relate the dream.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Body, \"I have dreamed it. But I would call it rather\n'The Sons of Delight.'\"\n\n\"And I,\" said the Will, \"The Sons of Silence.\"\n\n\"Tell it,\" said the Soul, looking towards the Body.\n\n\"It was night,\" answered the Body at once: \"and I was alone in a waste\nplace. My feet were entangled among briars and thorns, and beside me was\na quagmire. On the briar grew a great staff, and beside it a circlet of\nwoven thorn. I could see them, in a soft, white light. It must have been\nmoonlight, for on the other side of the briar I saw, in the moonshine, a\nmaze of wild roses. They were lovely and fragrant. I would have liked to\ntake the staff, but it was circled with the thorn-wreath; so I turned to\nthe moonshine and the wild roses. It was then that I saw a multitude of\ntall and lovely figures, men and women, all rose-crowned, and the pale,\nbeautiful faces of the women with lips like rose-leaves. They were\nsinging. It was the Song of Delight. I, too, sang. And as I sang, I\nwondered, for I thought that the eyes of those about me were heavy with\nlove and dreams, as though each had been pierced with a shadowy thorn.\nBut still the song rose, and I knew that the flowers in the grass\nbreathed to it, and that the vast slow cadence of the stars was its\nmajestic measure. Then the dawn broke, and I saw all the company, winged\nand crested with the seven colours, press together, so that a rainbow\nwas upbuilded. In the middle space below the rainbow, a bird sang. Then\nI knew I was that bird; and as the rainbow vanished, and the dawn grew\ngrey and chill, I sank to the ground. But it was all bog and swamp. I\nknew I should sing no more. But I heard voices saying: 'O happy,\nwonderful bird, who has seen all delight, whose song was so rapt, sing,\nsing, sing!' But when I could sing no more I was stoned, and lay dead.\n\n\"That was my dream.\"\n\nThe Soul sighed.\n\n\"It was not thus I dreamed,\" he murmured; \"but thus:--\n\n\"I stood, at night, on the verge of the sea, and looked at the maze of\nstars. And while looking and dreaming, I heard voices, and, turning,\nbeheld a multitude of human beings. All were sorrowful; many were heavy\nwith weariness and despair; all suffered from some grievous ill. Among\nthem were many who cried continually that they had no thought, or dream,\nno wish, but to forget all, and be at rest:\n\n\"I called to them, asking whither they were bound?\n\n\"'We are journeying to the Grave,' came the sighing answer.\n\n\"Then suddenly I saw the Grave. An angel stood at the portals. He was so\nbeautiful that the radiance of the light upon his brow lit that\nshoreless multitude; in every heart a little flame arose. The name of\nthat divine one was Hope.\n\n\"As shadow by shadow slipt silently into the dark road behind the Grave,\nI saw the Angel touch for a moment every pale brow.\n\n\"I knew at last that I saw beyond the Grave. Infinite ways traversed the\nuniverse, wherein suns and moons and stars hung like fruit. Multitude\nwithin multitude was there.\n\n\"Then, again, suddenly I stood where I had been, and saw the Grave\nreopen, and from it troop back a myriad of bright and beautiful beings.\nI could see that some were souls re-born, some were lovely thoughts,\ndreams, hopes, aspirations, influences, powers and mighty spirits too.\nAnd all sang:\n\n\"'We are the Sons of Joy.'\n\n\"That was my dream.\"\n\nWe were still for a few moments. Then the Will spoke.\n\n\"This dream of ours is one thing as the Body's, and another as the\nSoul's. It is yet another, as I remember it:--\n\n\"On a night of a cold silence, when the breath of the equinox sprayed\nthe stars into a continuous dazzle, I heard the honk of the wild geese\nas they cleft their way wedgewise through the gulfs overhead.\n\n\"In the twinkling of an eye I was beyond the last shadow of the last\nwing.\n\n\"Before me lay a land solemn with auroral light. For a thousand years,\nthat were as a moment, I wandered therein. Then, far before me, I saw an\nimmense semi-circle of divine figures, tall, wonderful, clothed with\nmoonfire, each with uplifted head, as a forest before a wind. To the\nright they held the East, and to the left the West.\n\n\"'Who are you?' I cried, as I drifted through them like a mist of pale\nsmoke.\n\n\"'We are the Laughing Gods,' they answered.\n\n\"Then after I had drifted on beyond the reach of sea or land, to a\nfrozen solitude of ice, I saw again a vast concourse stretching\ncrescent-wise from east to west: taller, more wonderful, crowned with\nstars, and standing upon dead moons white with perished time.\n\n\"'Who are you?' I cried, as I went past them like a drift of pale smoke.\n\n\"'We are the Gods who laugh not,' they answered.\n\n\"Then when I had drifted beyond the silence of the Pole, and there was\nnothing but unhabitable air, and the dancing fires were a flicker in the\npale sheen far behind, I saw again a vast concourse stretching\ncrescent-wise from east to west. They were taller still; they were more\nwonderful still. They were crowned with flaming suns, and their feet\nwere white with the dust of ancient constellations.\n\n\"'Who are you!' I cried, as I went past them like a mist of pale smoke.\n\n\"'We are the Gods,' they answered.\n\n\"And while I waned into nothingness I felt in my nostrils the salt\nsmell of the sea, and, listening, I heard the honk of the wild geese\nwedging southward.\n\n\"That was my dream.\"\n\nWhen the Will ceased, nothing was said. We were too deeply moved by\nstrange thoughts, one and all. Was it always to be thus ... that we\nmight dream one dream, confusedly real, confusedly unreal, when we three\nwere one; but that when each dreamed alone, the dream, the vision, was\never to be distinct in form and significance?\n\nWe lay resting for long. After a time we slept. I cannot remember what\nthen we dreamed, but I know that these three dreams were become one, and\nthat what the Soul saw and what the Will saw and what the Body saw was a\nmore near and searching revelation in this new and one dream than in any\nof the three separately. I pondered this, trying to remember: but the\ndeepest dreams are always unrememberable, and leave only a fragrance, a\nsound as of a quiet footfall passing into silence, or a cry, or a sense\nof something wonderful, unimagined, or of light intolerable: but I could\nrecall only the memory of a moment ... a moment wherein, in a flash of\nlightning, I had seen all, understood all.\n\nI rose ... there was a dazzle on the water, a shimmer on every leaf, a\nfalling away as of walls of air into the great river of the wind ... and\nthere were three, not one, each staring dazed at the other, in the ears\nof each the bewilderment of the already faint echo of that lost \"I.\"\n\n\nVIII\n\nTowards sundown we came upon a hamlet, set among the hills. Our hearts\nhad beat quicker as we drew near, for with the glory of light gathered\nabove the west the mountains had taken upon them a bloom soft and\nwonderful, and we thought that at last we were upon the gates of the\nhills towards which we had journeyed so eagerly. But when we reached the\nlast pines on the ridge we saw the wild doves flying far westward.\nBeyond us, under a pale star, dimly visible in a waste of rose, were the\nHills of Dream.\n\nThe Soul wished to go to them at once, for now they seemed so near to us\nthat we might well reach them with the rising of the moon. But the\nothers were tired, nor did the Hills seem so near to them. So we sat\ndown by the peat-fire in a shepherd's cottage, and ate of milk and\nporridge, and talked with the man about the ways of that district, and\nthe hills, and how best to reach them. \"If you want work,\" he said,\n\"you should go away south, where the towns are, an' not to these lonely\nhills. They are so barren, that even the goatherds no longer wander\ntheir beasts there.\"\n\n\"It's said they're haunted,\" added the Body, seeing that the others did\nnot speak.\n\n\"Ay, sure enough. That's well known, master. An' for the matter o' that,\nthere's a wood down there to the right where for three nights past I\nhave seen figures and the gleaming of fire. But there isn't a soul in\nthat wood--no, not a wandering tinker. I took my dogs through it to-day,\nan' there wasn't the sign even of a last-year's gypsy. As for the low\nbare hill beyond it, not a man, let alone a woman or child, would go\nnear it in the dark. In the Gaelic it's called Maol De, that is to say,\nthe Hill of God.\"\n\nFor a long time we sat talking with the shepherd, for he told us of many\nthings that were strange, and some that were beautiful, and some that\nwere wild and terrible. One of his own brothers, after an evil life, had\nbecome mad, and even now lived in caves among the higher hills, going\never on hands and feet, and cursing by day and night because he was made\nas one of the wild swine, that know only hunger and rage and savage\nsleep. He himself tended lovingly his old father, who was too frail to\nwork, and often could not sleep at nights because of the pleasant but\nwearying noise the fairies made as they met on the dancing-lawns among\nthe bracken. Our friend had not himself heard the simple people, and in\na whisper confided to us that he thought the old man was a bit mazed,\nand that what he heard was only the solitary playing of the Amadan-Dhu,\nwho, it was known to all, roamed the shadows between the two dusks.\n\"Keep away from the river in the hollow,\" he said at another moment,\n\"for it's there, on a night like this, just before the full moon got up,\nthat, when I was a boy, I saw the Aonaran. An' to this day, if I saw you\nor any one standing by the water, it 'ud be all I could do not to thrust\nyou into it and drown you: ay, I'd have to throw myself on my face, an'\nbite the grass, an' pray till my soul shook the murder out at my throat.\nFor that's the Aonaran's doing.\"\n\nLater, he showed us, when we noticed it, a bit of smooth coral that hung\nby a coarse leathern thong from his neck.\n\n\"Is that an amulet?\" one of us asked.\n\n\"No: it's my lassie's.\"\n\nWe looked at the man inquiringly.\n\n\"The bairn's dead thirty years agone.\"\n\nIn the silence that followed, one of us rose, and went with the shepherd\ninto the little room behind. When the man came back it was with a\nwonderful light in his face. Our comrade did not return ... but when we\nglanced sidelong, lo, the Soul was there, as though he had not moved.\nThen, of a sudden, we knew what he had done, what he had said, and were\nglad.\n\nWhen we left (the shepherd wanted us to stay the night, but we would\nnot), the stars had come. The night was full of solemn beauty.\n\nWe went down by the wood of which the shepherd had spoken, and came upon\nit as the moon rose. But as a path bordered it, we followed that little\nwinding white gleam, somewhat impatient now to reach those far hills\nwhere each of us believed he would find his heart's desire, or, at the\nleast, have that vision of absolute Truth, of absolute Beauty, which we\nhad set out to find.\n\nWe had not gone a third of the way when the Body abruptly turned, waving\nto us a warning hand. When we stood together silent, motionless, we saw\nthat we were upon a secret garden. We were among ilex, and beyond were\ntall cypresses, like dark flames rising out of the earth, their hither\nsides lit with wavering moonfire. Far away the hill-foxes barked.\nSomewhere near us in the dusk an owl hooted. The nested wild doves were\nsilent. Once, the faint churr of a distant fern-owl sent a vibrant\ndissonance, that was yet strangely soothing, through the darkness and\nthe silence.\n\n\"Look!\" whispered the Body.\n\nWe saw, on a mossy slope under seven great cypresses, a man lying on the\nground, asleep. The moonshine reached him as we looked, and revealed a\nface of so much beauty and of so great a sorrow that the heart ached.\nNevertheless, there was so infinite a peace there, that, merely gazing\nupon it, our lives stood still. The moonbeam slowly passed from that\ndivine face. I felt my breath rising and falling, like a feather before\nthe mystery of the wind is come. Then, the further surprised, we saw\nthat the sleeper was not alone. About him were eleven others, who also\nslept; but of these one sat upright, as though the watchman of the dark\nhour, slumbering at his post.\n\nWhile the Body stooped, whispering, we caught sight of the white face of\nyet another, behind the great bole of a tree. This man, the twelfth of\nthat company which was gathered about the sleeper in its midst, stared,\nwith uplifted hand. In his other hand, and lowered to the ground, was a\ntorch. He stared upon the Sleeper.\n\nSlowly I moved forward. But whether in so doing, or by so doing, we\nbroke some subtle spell, which had again made us as one, I know not.\nSuddenly three stood in that solitary place, with none beside us,\nneither sleeping nor watching, neither quick nor dead. Far off the\nhill-foxes barked. Among the cypress boughs an owl hooted, and was\nstill.\n\n\"Have we dreamed?\" each asked the other. Then the Body told what he had\nseen, and what heard; and it was much as is written here, only that the\nsleepers seemed to him worn and poor men, ill-clad, weary, and that\nbehind the white face of the twelfth, who hid behind a tree, was a\ncompany of evil men with savage faces, and fierce eyes, and drawn\nswords.\n\n\"I have seen nothing of all this,\" said the Will harshly, \"but only a\nfire drowning in its own ashes, round which a maze of leaves circled\nthis way and that, blown by idle winds.\"\n\nThe Soul looked at the speaker. He sighed. \"Though God were to sow\nliving fires about you, O Will,\" he said, \"you would not believe.\"\n\nThe Will answered dully: \"I have but one dream, one hope, and that is to\nbelieve. Do not mock me.\" The Soul leaned and kissed him lovingly on the\nbrow.\n\n\"Look,\" he said; \"what I saw was this: I beheld, asleep, the Divine\nLove; not sleeping, as mortals sleep, but in a holy quiet, brooding upon\ninfinite peace, and in commune with the Eternal Joy. Around him were the\nNine Angels, the _Crois nan Aingeal_ of our prayers, and two\nSeraphs--the Eleven Powers and Dominions of the World. And One stared\nupon them, and upon Him, out of the dark wood, with a face white with\ndespair, that great and terrible Lord of Shadow whom some call Death,\nand some Evil, and some Fear, and some the Unknown God. Behind him was a\nthrong of demons and demoniac creatures: and all died continually. And\nthe wood itself--it was an infinite forest; a forest of human souls\nawaiting God.\"\n\nThe Will listened, with eyes strangely ashine. Suddenly he fell upon his\nknees, and prayed. We saw tears falling from his eyes.\n\n\"I am blind and deaf,\" he whispered in the ear of the Body, as he rose;\n\"but, lest I forget, tell me where I am, in what place we are.\"\n\n\"It is a garden called Gethsemane,\" answered the other--though I know\nnot how he knew--I--we--as we walked onward in silence through the dusk\nof moon and star, and saw the gossamer-webs whiten as they became\nmyriad, and hang heavy with the pale glister of the dews of dawn.\n\n\nIX\n\nThe morning twilight wavered, and it was as though an incalculable host\nof grey doves fled upward and spread earthward before a wind with\npinions of rose: then the dappled dove-grey vapour faded, and the rose\nhung like the reflection of crimson fire, and dark isles of ruby and\nstraits of amethyst and pale gold and saffron and April-green came into\nbeing: and the new day was come.\n\nWe stood silent. There is a beauty too great. We moved slowly round by\nthe low bare hill beyond the wood. No one was there, but on the summit\nstood three crosses; one, midway, so great that it threw a shadow from\nthe brow of the East to the feet of the West.\n\nThe Soul stopped. He seemed as one rapt. We looked upon him with awe,\nfor his face shone as though from a light within. \"Listen,\" he\nwhispered, \"I hear the singing of the Sons of Joy. Farewell: I shall\ncome again.\"\n\nWe were alone, we two. Silently we walked onward. The sunrays slid\nthrough the grass, birds sang, the young world that is so old smiled:\nbut we had no heed for this. In that new solitude each almost hated the\nother. At noon a new grief, a new terror, came to us. We were upon a\nridge, looking westward. There were no hills anywhere.\n\nDoubtless the Soul had gone that way which led to them. For us ... they\nwere no longer there.\n\n\"Let us turn and go home,\" said the Body wearily.\n\nThe Will stood and thought.\n\n\"Let us go home,\" he said.\n\nWith that he turned, and walked hour after hour. It was by a road\nunknown to us, for, not noting where we went, we had traversed a path\nthat led us wide of that by which we had come. At least we saw nothing\nof it. Nor, at dusk, would the Will go further, nor agree even to seek\nfor a path that might lead to the garden called Gethsemane.\n\n\"We are far from it,\" he said, \"if indeed there be any such place. It\nwas a dream, and I am weary of all dreams. When we are home again, O\nBody, we will dream no more.\"\n\nThe Body was silent, then abruptly laughed. His comrade looked at him\ncuriously.\n\n\"Why do you laugh?\"\n\n\"Did you not say there would be no more tears? And of that I am glad.\"\n\n\"You did not laugh gladly. But what I said was that there shall be no\nmore dreams for us, that we will dream no more.\"\n\n\"It is the same thing. We have tears because we dream. If we hope no\nmore, we dream no more: if we dream no more, we weep no more. And I\nlaughed because of this: that if we weep no more we can live as we like,\nwithout thought of an impossible to-morrow, and with little thought even\nfor to-day.\"\n\nFor a time we walked in brooding thought, but slowly, because of the\ngathering dark. Neither spoke, until the Body suddenly stood still,\nthrowing up his arms.\n\n\"Oh, what a fool I have been! What a fool I have been!\"\n\nThe Will made no reply. He stared before him into the darkness.\n\nWe had meant to rest in the haven of the great oaks, but a thin rain had\nbegun, and we shivered with the chill. The thought came to us to turn\nand find our way back to the house of the shepherd, hopeless as the\nquest might prove, for we were more and more bewildered as to where we\nwere, or even as to the direction in which we moved, being without pilot\nof moon or star, and having already followed devious ways. But while we\nwere hesitating, we saw a light. The red flame shone steadily through\nthe rainy gloom, so we knew that it was no lantern borne by a\nfellow-wayfarer. In a brief while we came upon it, and saw that it was\nfrom a red lamp burning midway in a forest chapel.\n\nWe lifted the latch and entered. There was no one visible. Nor was any\none in the sacristy. We went to the door again, and looked vainly in all\ndirections for light which might reveal a neighbouring village, or\nhamlet, or even a woodlander's cottage.\n\nGlad as we were of the shelter, and of the glow from the lamp, a\nthought, a dream, a desire, divided us. We looked at each other\nsidelong, each both seeking and avoiding the other's eyes.\n\n\"I cannot stay here,\" said the Body at last; \"the place stifles me. I am\nfrightened to stay. The path outside is clear and well trodden; it must\nlead somewhere, and as this chapel is here, and as the lamp is lit, a\nvillage, or at least a house, cannot be far off.\"\n\nThe Will looked at him.\n\n\"Do not go,\" he said earnestly.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I do not know. But do not let us part. I dare not leave here. I feel as\nthough this were our one safe haven to-night.\"\n\nThe Body moved to the door and opened it.\n\n\"I am going. And--and--I am going, too, because I am tired both of you\nand the Soul. There is only one way for me, I see, and I go that way.\nFarewell.\"\n\nThe door closed. The Will was alone. For a few moments he stood, smiling\nscornfully. With a sudden despairing gesture he ran to the door, flung\nit open, and peered into the darkness.\n\nHe could see no one; could hear no steps. His long beseeching cry was\ndrowned among these solitudes. Slowly he re-closed the door; slowly\nwalked across the stone flags; and with folded arms stood looking upon\nthe altar, dyed crimson with the glow from the great lamp which hung\nmidway in the nave.\n\nThere was a choir-stall to the right. Here he sat, for a time glad\nmerely to be at rest.\n\nSoon all desire of sleep went from him, and he began to dream. At this\nhe smiled: it was so brief a while ago since he had said he would dream\nno more.\n\nAway now from his two lifelong comrades, and yet subtly connected with\nthem, and living by and through each, he felt a new loneliness. Life\ncould be very terrible. Life ... the word startled him. What life could\nthere be for him if the Body perished? That was why he had cried out in\nanguish after his comrade had left, with that ominous word \"farewell.\"\nTrue, now he lived, breathed, thought, as before: but this, he knew, was\nby some inexplicable miracle of personality, by which the three who had\nbeen one were each enabled to go forth, fulfilling, and in all ways\nruled and abiding by, the natural law. If the Body should die, would he\nnot then become as a breath in frost? If the Soul ... ah! he wondered\nwhat then would happen.\n\n\"When I was with the Body,\" he muttered, \"I was weary of dreams, or\nlonged only for those dreams which could be fulfilled in action. But now\n... now it is different. I am alone. I must follow my own law. But what\n... how ... where ... am I to choose? All the world is a wilderness with\na heart of living light. The side we see is Life: the side we do not see\nwe call Hope. All ways--a thousand myriad ways--lead to it. Which shall\nI choose? How shall I go?\"\n\nThen I began to dream ... I ... we ... then the Will began to dream.\n\nSlowly the Forest Chapel filled with a vast throng, ever growing more\ndense as it became more multitudinous, till it seemed as though the\nwalls fell away and that the aisles reached interminably into the world\nof shadow, through the present into the past, and to dim ages.\n\nBehind the altar stood a living Spirit, most wonderful, clothed with\nBeauty and Terror.\n\nThen the Will saw, understood, that this was not the Christ, nor yet the\nHoly Spirit, but a Dominion. It was the Spirit of this world, one of the\nPowers and Dominions whom of old men called the gods. But all in that\nincalculable throng worshipped this Spirit as the Supreme God. He saw,\ntoo, or realised, that, to those who worshipped, this Spirit appeared\ndifferently, now as a calm and august dreamer, now as an inspired\nwarrior, now as a man wearing a crown of thorns against the shadow of a\ngigantic cross: as the Son of God, or the Prophet of God, or in manifold\nways the Supreme One, from Jehovah to the savage Fetich.\n\nTurning from that ocean of drowned life, he looked again at the\nrainbow-plumed and opal-hued Spirit: but now he could see no one,\nnothing, but a faint smoke that rose as from a torch held by an\ninvisible hand. The altar stood unserved.\n\nNor was the multitude present. The myriad had become a wavering shadow,\nand was no more.\n\nA child had entered the church. The little boy came slowly along the\nnave till he stood beneath the red lamp, so that his white robe was warm\nwith its glow. He sang, and the Will thought it was a strange song to\nhear in that place, and wondered if the child were not an image of what\nwas in his own heart.\n\n    When the day darkens,\n    When dusk grows light,\n    When the dew is falling,\n      When Silence dreams...\n    I hear a wind\n    Calling, calling\n    By day and by night.\n\n    What is the wind\n    That I hear calling\n    By day and by night,\n      The crying of wind?\n    When the day darkens,\n    When dusk grows light,\n    When the dew is falling?\n\nThe Will rose and moved towards the child. No one was there, but he saw\nthat a wind-eddy blew about the altar, for a little cloud of rose-leaves\nswirled above it. As in a dream he heard a voice, faint and sweet:--\n\n    Out of the Palace\n    Of Silence and Dreams\n    My voice is falling\n      From height to height:\n    I am the Wind\n    Calling, calling\n    By day and by night.\n\nThe red flame waned and was no more. Above the altar a white flame, pure\nas an opal burning in moonfire, rose for a moment, and in a moment was\nmysteriously gathered into the darkness.\n\nStartled, the Will stood moveless in the obscurity. Were these symbols\nof the end--the red flame and the white ... the Body and the Soul?\n\nThen he remembered the ancient wisdom of the Gael, and went out of the\nForest Chapel and passed into the woods. He put his lips to the earth,\nand lifted a green leaf to his brow, and held a branch to his ear: and\nbecause he was no longer heavy with the sweet clay of mortality, though\nyet of the human clan, he heard that which we do not hear, and saw that\nwhich we do not see, and knew that which we do not know. All the green\nlife was his. In that new world he saw the lives of trees, now pale\ngreen, now of woodsmoke blue, now of amethyst: the grey lives of stone:\nbreaths of the grass and reed: creatures of the air, delicate and wild\nas fawns, or swift and fierce and terrible, tigers of that undiscovered\nwilderness, with birds almost invisible but for their luminous wings,\ntheir opalescent crests.\n\nWith these and the familiar natural life, with every bird and beast\nkindred and knowing him kin, he lived till the dawn, and from the dawn\ntill sunrise, and from sunrise till noon. At noon he slept. When he woke\nhe saw that he had wandered far, and was glad when he came to a\nwoodlander's cottage. Here a woman gave him milk and bread, but she was\ndumb, and he could learn nothing from her. She showed him a way which he\nfollowed; and by that high upland path, before sundown, he came again\nupon the Forest Chapel, and saw that it stood on a spur of blue hills.\n\nWere it not for a great and startling weakness that had suddenly come\nupon him, he would have gone in search of his lost comrade. While he lay\nwith his back against a tree, vaguely wondering what ill had come upon\nhim, he heard a sound of wheels. Soon after a rough cart was driven\nrapidly towards the Forest Chapel, but when the countryman saw him he\nreined in abruptly, as though at once recognising one whom he had set\nout to seek. \"Your friend is dying,\" he said; \"come at once if you want\nto see him again. He sent me to look for you.\"\n\nIn a moment all lassitude and pain went from the Will, and he sprang\ninto the cart, asking (while his mind throbbed with a dreadful anxiety)\nmany questions. But all he could learn from his taciturn companion was\nthat yester eve his comrade had fallen in with a company of roystering\nand loose folk, with whom he had drunk heavily over-night and gamed and\nlived evilly; that all this day he had lain as in a stupor, till the\nafternoon, when he awoke and straightway fell into a quarrel about a\nwoman, and, after fierce words and blows, had been mortally wounded\nwith a knife. He was now lying, almost in the grasp of death, at the Inn\nof the Crossways.\n\nIn the whirl of anxiety, dread, and a new and terrible confusion, the\nWill could not think clearly as to what he was to say or do, what was to\nbe or could be done for his friend. And while he was still swayed\nhelplessly, this way and that, as a herring in a net drifted to and fro\nby wind and wave, the Inn was reached.\n\nWith stumbling eagerness he mounted the rough stairs, and entered a\nsmall room, clean, though almost sordid in its bareness, yet through its\nwestern window filled with the solemn light of sunset.\n\nOn a white bed lay the Body, and the Will saw at a glance that his\ncomrade had not long to live. The handkerchief the sufferer held on his\nbreast was stained with the bright crimson of the riven lungs; his white\nface was whiter than the pillow, the more so, as a red splatch lay on\neach cheek.\n\nThe dying man opened his eyes as the door opened. He smiled gladly when\nhe saw who had come.\n\n\"I am glad indeed of this,\" he whispered. \"I feared I was to die alone,\nand in delirium or unconsciousness. Now I shall not be alone till the\nend. And then----\"\n\nBut here the Will sank upon his knees by the bedside. For a few minutes\nhis tears fell upon the hand he clasped. The sobs shook in his throat.\nHe had never fully realised what love he bore his comrade, his second\nself; how interwrought with him were all his joys and sorrows, his\ninterests, his hopes and fears.\n\nSuddenly, with supplicating arms, he cried, \"Do not die! Oh, do not die!\nSave me, save me, save me!\"\n\n\"How can I save you, how can I help you, dear friend?\" asked the Body in\na broken voice; \"my sand is all but run out; my hour is come.\"\n\n\"But do you not know, do you not see, that I cannot live without\nyou!--that I must _die_--that if you perish so must I also pass with\nyour passing breath!\"\n\n\"No--no--no!--for, see, we are no longer one, but three. The Soul is far\nfrom us now, and soon you too will be gone on your own way. It is only I\nwho can go no more into the beautiful dear world. O Will, if I could, I\nwould give all your knowledge and endless quest of wisdom and all your\nhopes, and all the dreams and the white faith of the Soul, for one\nlittle year of sweet human life--for one month even--ah, what do I say,\nfor a few days even, for a day, for a few hours! It is so terrible thus\nto be stamped out. Yesterday I saw a dog leaping and barking in delight\nas it raced about a wagon, and then in a moment a foot caught and it was\nentangled, and the wagon-wheel crushed it into a lifeless mass. There\nwas no dog; for that poor beast it was the same as though it had never\nbeen, as though the world had never been, as though nothing more was to\nbe. He was a breath blown unremembering out of nothing into nothing.\nThat is what death is. That is what death is, O Will!\"\n\n\"No, no, it is too horrible--too cruel--too unjust.\"\n\n\"Yes, for you. But not for me. Your way is not the way of death, but of\nlife. For me, I am as the beasts are, their sorry lord, but akin--oh\nyes, akin, akin. I follow the natural law in all things. And I know this\nnow, dear comrade: that without you and the Soul I should have been no\nother than the brutes that know nothing save their innocent lusts and\nlive and die without thought.\"\n\nThe Will slowly rose.\n\n\"It was madness for us to separate and come upon this quest,\" he said,\nlooking longingly at the Body.\n\n\"Not so, dear friend. We should have had to separate soon or late,\nwhatsoever we had done. If I have feared you at times, and turned from\nyou often, I have loved you well, and still more the Soul. I think you\nhave both lied to me overmuch, and you mostly. But I forgive what I know\nwas done in love and hope. And you, O Will, forgive me for all I have\nbrought, what I now bring, upon you; forgive the many thwartings and\ndull indifference and heavy drag I have so often, oh, so often been to\nyou. For now death is at hand. But I have one thing I wish to ask you.\"\n\n\"Speak.\"\n\n\"Before my life was broken, there was one whom I loved. Every hope,\nevery dream, every joy, every sorrow that I had came from this love. It\nwas her death which broke my life--not only for the piteous loss and all\nit meant to me, but because death came with tragic heedlessness--for she\nwas young, and strong, and beautiful. And before she died, she said we\nshould meet again. I was never, and now am far the less worthy of her;\nand yet--and yet--oh, if only that great, beautiful love were all I had\nto doubt or fear, I should have no doubt or fear! But no--no--we shall\nnever meet. How can we? Before to-morrow I shall be like that crushed\ndog, and not be: just as if I had never been!\"\n\nThe blood rose, and sobs and tears made further words inaudible. But\nafter a little the Body spoke again.\n\n\"But you, O Will, you and the Soul both resemble me. We are as flowers\nof the same colour, as clay of the same mould. It may be you shall meet\nher. Tell her that my last thought was of her: take her all my dreams\nand hopes--and say--and say--say----\"\n\nBut here the Body sat up in the bed, ash-white, with parted lips and\nstraining eyes.\n\n\"What? Quick, quick, dear Body--say?----\"\n\n\"Say that I loved best that in her which I loved best in myself--the\nSoul. Tell her I have never wholly despaired. Ah, if only the Soul were\nhere, I would not even now despair! Tell her I leave all to the\nSoul--and--and--love shall triumph----\"\n\nThere was a rush of blood, a gurgling cry, and the Body sank back\nlifeless. In the very moment of death the eyes lightened with a\nwonderful radiance--it was as though the evening stars suddenly came\nthrough the dark.\n\nThe Will looked to see whence it came. The Soul stood beside him, white,\nwonderful, radiant.\n\n\"I have come,\" he said.\n\n\"For me?\" said the Will, shaking as with an ague, yet in bitter irony.\n\n\"Yes, for you, and for the Body too.\"\n\n\"For the Body?--see, he is already clay. What word have you to say to\n_that_, to _me_ who likewise am already perishing?\n\n\"This--do you remember what so brief a while ago we three as one\nwrote--wrote with my spirit, through your mind, and the Body's\nhand--these words: _Love is more great than we conceive, and Death is\nthe keeper of unknown redemptions?_\"\n\n\"Yes--yes--O Soul! I remember, I remember.\"\n\n\"It was true there: it is true here. Have I not ever told you that Love\nwould save?\"\n\nWith that the Soul moved over to the bedside, and kissed the Body.\n\n\"Farewell, fallen leaf. But the tree lives--and beyond the tree is the\nwind, the breath of the eternal.\"\n\n\"Look,\" he added, \"our comrade is still asleep, though now no mortal\nskill could nourish the hidden spark\"; and with that he stooped and\nkissed again the silent lips and the still brow and the pulseless\nheart, and suddenly a breath, an essence, came from the body, in form\nlike itself, a phantom, yet endued with a motion of life.\n\nAs the faintest murmur in a shell we heard him whisper, _Life! Life!\nLife!_ Then, as a blown vapour, he was one with us. A singular change\ncame upon the clay which had once been so near and dear to us: a frozen\nwhiteness that had not been there before, a stillness as of ancient\nmarble.\n\nThe Will stood, appalled, with wild eyes. Some dreadful invisible power\nwas upon him.\n\n\"Lost!\" he cried; and now his voice, too, was faint as a murmur in a\nshell. But the Soul smiled.\n\nThen the Will grew grey as a willow-leaf aslant in the wind; and as the\nshadow of a reed wavered in the wind; and as a reed's shadow is and is\nnot, so was he suddenly no more.\n\nBut, in the miracle of a moment, the Soul appeared in the triple mystery\nof substance, and mind, and spirit. In full and joyous life the Will\nstood re-born, and now we three were one again.\n\nI looked for the last time on that which had been our home. The lifeless\nthing lay, most terribly still and strange; yet with a dignity that\ncame as a benediction, for this dead temple of life had yielded to a\ndivine law, allied not to shadow and decay, but to the recurrent spring,\nto the eternal ebb and flow, to the infinite processional. It is we of\nthe human clan only who are troubled by the vast waste and refuse of\nlife. There is not any such waste, neither in the myriad spawn nor the\nmyriad seed: a Spirit sows by the law we do not see, and reaps by a law\nwe do not know.\n\nThen I turned and went to the western window. I saw that the Inn stood\nupon the Hills of Dream, yet, when I looked within, I knew that I was\nagain in my familiar home. Once more, beyond the fuchsia bushes, the sea\nsighed, as it felt the long shore with a continuous foamless wave. In\nthe little room below, the lamp was lit; for the glow fell warmly upon\nthe gravel path, shell-bordered, and upon the tufted mignonette,\nsea-pinks, and feathery southernwood. The sound of hushed voices rose.\n\nAnd now the dawn is come, and I have written this record of what we, who\nare now indeed one, but far more truly and intimately than before, went\nout to seek. In another hour I shall go hence, a wayfarer again. I have\na long road to travel, but am sustained by joy, and uplifted by a great\nhope. When, tired, I lay down the pen, and with it the last of mortal\nuses, it will be to face the glory of a new day. I have no fear. I shall\nnot leave all I have loved, for I have that in me which binds me to this\nbeautiful world, for another life at least, it may be for many lives.\nAnd that within me which dreamed and hoped shall now more gladly and\nwonderfully dream, and hope, and seek, and know, and see ever deeper and\nfurther into the mystery of beauty and truth. And that within me which\n_knew_, now _knows_. In the deepest sense there is no spiritual dream\nthat is not true, no hope that shall for ever go famished, no tears that\nshall not be gathered into the brooding skies of compassion, to fall\nagain in healing dews.\n\nWhat the Body could not, nor ever could see, and what to the Will was a\ndarkness, or at best a bewildering mist, is now clear. There are\nmysteries of which I cannot write; not from any occult secret, but\nbecause they are so simple and inevitable, that, like the mystery of day\nand night, or the change of the seasons, or life and death, they must be\nlearned by each, in his own way, in his own hour. It is not out of their\nlight that I see; it is by these stars that I set forth, where else I\nshould be as a shadow upon a trackless waste.\n\nBut Love, I am come to realise, is the supreme deflecting force. Love\n\"unloosens sins,\" unites failure, disintegrates the act; not by an\ninconceivable conflict with the immutable law of consequence, but by\ndeflection. For the divine love follows the life, and turns and meets it\nat last, and in that meeting deflects: so that that which is mortal,\nevil, and what is of the mortal law, the act, sinks; and on the forehead\nof the divine law that which is alone inevitable survives and moves\nonward in the rhythm that is life. When we understand the mystery of\nRedemption, we shall understand what Love is. The expiatory is an\nunknown attribute in the Divine. Expiation is but the earthly\nburnt-offering of that in us that is mortal: Redemption, which is the\nspiritual absorption of the expiation due to others, and the measureless\nrestitution in love of wrong humbly brought to the soul and consumed\nthere--so that it issues a living force to meet and deflect--is the\nliving witness in that of us which is immortal. Those who wrong us do\nindeed become our saviours. It is _their_ expiation that we make _ours_:\nthey must go free of us; and when they come again and discrown us, then\nin love we shall be at one and equal. So far, words may clothe thought;\nbut, beyond, the soul knows there is no expiation. Except you redeem\nyourself, there is no God. Forgiveness is the dream of little children:\nbeautiful because thus far we see and know, but no farther.\n\nI see now what madness it was, as so often happened, to despise the\nbody. But one mystery has become clear to me through this strange quest\nof ours--though when I say \"I,\" or \"our,\" I know not whether it is the\nBody or the Will or the Soul that speaks, till I remember that triune\nmarriage at the deathbed, and know that while each is consciously\neach--the one with memory, the other with knowledge and hope, the third\nwith wisdom and faith--we are yet one, as are the yellow and the white\nand the violet in the single flame in this candle beside me. And this\nmystery is, that the body was not built of life-warmed clay merely to be\nthe house of the soul. Were it so, were the soul unwed to its mortal\ncomrades, it would be no more than a moment's uplifted wave on an\ninfinite sea. Without memory, without hope, it would be no more than a\nbreath of the Spirit. But before the Divine Power moulded us into\nsubstance, we were shaped by it in form. And form is, in the spiritual\nlaw, what the crystal is in the chemic law.\n\nFor now I see clearly that the chief end of the body is to enable the\nsoul to come into intimate union with the natural law, so that it may\nfulfil the divine law of Form, and be at one with all created life and\nyet be for ever itself and individual. By itself the soul would only\nvainly aspire; it has to learn to remember, to become at one with the\nwind and the grass and with all that lives and moves; to take its life\nfrom the root of the body, and its green life from the mind, and its\nflower and fragrance from what it may of itself obtain, not only from\nthis world, but from its own dews, its own rainbows, dawn stars and\nevening stars, and vast incalculable fans of time and death. And this I\nhave learned: that there is no absolute Truth, no absolute Beauty, even\nfor the Soul. It may be that in the Divine Forges we shall be so moulded\nas to have perfect vision. Meanwhile only that Truth is deepest, that\nBeauty highest which is seen, not by the Soul only, or by the Mind, or\nby the Body, but all three as one. Let each be perfect in kind and\nperfect in unity. This is the signal meaning of the mystery. It is so\ninevitable that it has its blind descent to fetich as well as its divine\nascension. But the ignoble use does not annul the noble purport, any\nmore than the blindness of many obscures the dream of one.\n\nThere could be no life hereafter for the soul were it not for the body,\nand what were that life without the mind, the child of both, whom the\nancient seers knew and named Mnemosyne? Without memory life would be a\nvoid breath, immortality a vacuum.\n\nAh, the glory of the lifting light! The new day is come. Farewell.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[1] The Aztec word _Ehecatl_, which signifies alike the Wind (or\nBreath), Shadow, and Soul.\n\n\n\n\nIONA\n\n\n  \"_There are moments when the soul takes wings: what it has to\n  remember, it remembers: what it loves, it loves still more: what it\n  longs for, to that it flies._\"\n\n\n\n\nIona\n\n\nA few places in the world are to be held holy, because of the love which\nconsecrates them and the faith which enshrines them. Their names are\nthemselves talismans of spiritual beauty. Of these is Iona.\n\nThe Arabs speak of Mecca as a holy place before the time of the prophet,\nsaying that Adam himself lies buried here: and, before Adam, that the\nSons of Allah, who are called Angels, worshipped; and that when Allah\nHimself stood upon perfected Earth it was on this spot. And here, they\nadd, when there is no man left upon earth, an angel shall gather up the\ndust of this world, and say to Allah, \"There is nothing left of the\nwhole earth but Mecca: and now Mecca is but the few grains of sand that\nI hold in the hollow of my palm, O Allah.\"\n\nIn spiritual geography Iona is the Mecca of the Gael.\n\nIt is but a small isle, fashioned of a little sand, a few grasses salt\nwith the spray of an ever-restless wave, a few rocks that wade in\nheather and upon whose brows the sea-wind weaves the yellow lichen. But\nsince the remotest days sacrosanct men have bowed here in worship. In\nthis little island a lamp was lit whose flame lighted pagan Europe, from\nthe Saxon in his fens to the swarthy folk who came by Greek waters to\ntrade the Orient. Here Learning and Faith had their tranquil home, when\nthe shadow of the sword lay upon all lands, from Syracuse by the\nTyrrhene Sea to the rainy isles of Orcc. From age to age, lowly hearts\nhave never ceased to bring their burthen here. Iona herself has given us\nfor remembrance a fount of youth more wonderful than that which lies\nunder her own boulders of Dun-I. And here Hope waits.\n\nTo tell the story of Iona is to go back to God, and to end in God.\n\n\nBut to write of Iona, there are many ways of approach. No place that has\na spiritual history can be revealed to those who know nothing of it by\nfacts and descriptions. The approach may be through the obscure glens of\nanother's mind and so out by the moonlit way, as well as by the track\nthat thousands travel. I have nothing to say of Iona's acreage, or\nfisheries, or pastures: nothing of how the islanders live. These things\nare the accidental. There is small difference in simple life anywhere.\nMoreover, there are many to tell all that need be known.\n\nThere is one Iona, a little island of the west. There is another Iona,\nof which I would speak. I do not say that it lies open to all. It is as\nwe come that we find. If we come, bringing nothing with us, we go away\nill-content, having seen and heard nothing of what we had vaguely\nexpected to see or hear. It is another Iona than the Iona of sacred\nmemories and prophecies: Iona the metropolis of dreams. None can\nunderstand it who does not see it through its pagan light, its Christian\nlight, its singular blending of paganism and romance and spiritual\nbeauty. There is, too, an Iona that is more than Gaelic, that is more\nthan a place rainbow-lit with the seven desires of the world, the Iona\nthat, if we will it so, is a mirror of your heart and of mine.\n\nHistory may be written in many ways, but I think that in days to come\nthe method of spiritual history will be found more suggestive than the\nmethod of statistical history. The one will, in its own way, reveal\ninward life, and hidden significance, and palpable destiny: as the\nother, in the good but narrow way of convention, does with exactitude\ndelineate features, narrate facts, and relate events. The true\ninterpreter will as little despise the one as he will claim all for the\nother.\n\nAnd that is why I would speak here of Iona as befalls my pen, rather\nthan as perhaps my pen should go: and choose legend and remembrance, and\nmy own and other memories and associations, and knowledge of my own and\nothers, and hidden meanings, and beauty and strangeness surviving in\ndreams and imaginations, rather than facts and figures, that others\ncould adduce more deftly and with more will.\n\n\nIn the _Felire na Naomh Nerennach_ is a strangely beautiful if fantastic\nlegend of one Mochaoi, Abbot of n'-Aondruim in Uladh. With some\ncompanions he was at the edge of a wood, and while busy in cutting\nwattles wherewith to build a church, \"he heard a bright bird singing on\nthe blackthorn near him. It was more beautiful than the birds of the\nworld.\" Mochaoi listened entranced. There was more in that voice than in\nthe throat of any bird he had ever heard, so he stopped his\nwattle-cutting, and, looking at the bird, courteously asked who was\nthus delighting him. The bird at once answered, \"A man of the people of\nmy Lord\" (that is, an angel). \"Hail,\" said Mochaoi, \"and for why that, O\nbird that is an angel?\" \"I am come here by command to encourage you in\nyour good work, but also, because of the love in your heart, to amuse\nyou for a time with my sweet singing.\" \"I am glad of that,\" said the\nsaint. Thereupon the bird sang a single surpassing sweet air, and then\nfixed his beak in the feathers of his wing, and slept. But Mochaoi heard\nthe beauty and sweetness and infinite range of that song for three\nhundred years. Three hundred years were in that angelic song, but to\nMochaoi it was less than an hour. For three hundred years he remained\nlistening, in the spell of beauty: nor in that enchanted hour did any\nage come upon him, or any withering upon the wattles he had gathered;\nnor in the wood itself did a single leaf turn to a red or yellow flame\nbefore his eyes. Where the spider spun her web, she spun no more: where\nthe dove leaned her grey breast from the fir, she leaned still.\n\nThen suddenly the bird took its beak from its wing-feathers, and said\nfarewell. When it was gone, Mochaoi lifted his wattles, and went\nhomeward as one in a dream. He stared, when he looked for the little\nwattled cells of the Sons of Patrick. A great church built of stone\nstood before his wondering eyes. A man passed him, and told the stranger\nthat it was the church of St. Mochaoi. When he spoke to the assembled\nbrothers, none knew him: some thought he had been taken away by the\npeople of the Shee, and come back at fairy-nightfall, which is the last\nhour of the last day of three hundred years. \"Tell us your name and\nlineage,\" they cried. \"I am Mochaoi, Abbot of n'-Aondruim,\" he said, and\nthen he told his tale, and they knew him, and made him abbot again. In\nthe enchanted wood a shrine was built, and about it a church grew, \"and\nsurpassingly white angels often alighted there, or sang hymns to it from\nthe branches of the forest trees, or leaned with their foot on tiptoe,\ntheir eyes on the horizon, their ear on the ground, their wings\nflapping, their bodies trembling, waiting to send tidings of prayer and\nrepentance with a beat of their wings to the King of the Everlasting.\"\n\nThere are many who thought that Mochaoi was dead, when he was seen no\nmore of his fellow-monks at the forest monastery of n'Aondruim in Uladh.\nBut his chronicler knew: \"a sleep without decay of the body Mochaoi of\nAntrim slept.\"\n\nI am reminded of the story of Mochaoi when I think of Iona. I think she\ntoo, beautiful isle, while gathering the help of human longing and tears\nand hopes, strewn upon her beaches by wild waves of the world, stood,\nenchanted, to listen to a Song of Beauty. \"That is a new voice I hear in\nthe wave,\" we can dream of her saying, and of the answer: \"we are the\nangelic flocks of the Shepherd: we are the Voices of the Eternal: listen\na while!\"\n\nIt has been a long sleep, that enchanted swoon. But Mochaoi awoke, after\nthree hundred years, and there was neither time upon his head, nor age\nin his body, nor a single withered leaf of the forest at his feet. And\nshall not that be possible for the Isle of Dreams, whose sands are the\ndust of martyrs and noble and beautiful lives, which was granted to one\nman by \"one of the people of my Lord?\"\n\n\nWhen I think of Iona I think often, too, of a prophecy once connected\nwith Iona; though perhaps current no more in a day when prophetical\nhopes are fallen dumb and blind.\n\nIt is commonly said that, if he would be heard, none should write in\nadvance of his times. That I do not believe. Only, it does not matter\nhow few listen. I believe that we are close upon a great and deep\nspiritual change. I believe a new redemption is even now conceived of\nthe Divine Spirit in the human heart, that is itself as a woman, broken\nin dreams, and yet sustained in faith, patient, long-suffering, looking\ntowards home. I believe that though the Reign of Peace may be yet a long\nway off, it is drawing near: and that Who shall save us anew shall come\ndivinely as a Woman, to save as Christ saved, but not, as He did, to\nbring with Her a sword. But whether this Divine Woman, this Mary of so\nmany passionate hopes and dreams, is to come through mortal birth, or as\nan immortal Breathing upon our souls, none can yet know.\n\nSometimes I dream of the old prophecy that Christ shall come again upon\nIona, and of that later and obscure prophecy which foretells, now as the\nBride of Christ, now as the Daughter of God, now as the Divine Spirit\nembodied through mortal birth in a Woman, as once through mortal birth\nin a Man, the coming of a new Presence and Power: and dream that this\nmay be upon Iona, so that the little Gaelic island may become as the\nlittle Syrian Bethlehem. But more wise it is to dream, not of hallowed\nground, but of the hallowed gardens of the soul wherein She shall appear\nwhite and radiant. Or, that upon the hills, where we are wandered, the\nShepherdess shall call us home.\n\nFrom one man only, on Iona itself, I have heard any allusion to the\nprophecy as to the Saviour who shall yet come: and he in part was\nobscure, and confused the advent of Mary into the spiritual world with\nthe possible coming again to earth of Mary, as another Redeemer, or with\na descending of the Divine Womanhood upon the human heart as a universal\nspirit descending upon awaiting souls. But in intimate remembrance I\nrecall the words and faith of one or two whom I loved well. Nor must I\nforget that my old nurse, Barabal, used to sing a strange \"oran,\" to the\neffect that when St. Bride came again to Iona it would be to bind the\nhair and wash the feet of the Bride of Christ.\n\nOne of those to whom I allude was a young Hebridean priest, who died in\nVenice, after troubled years, whose bitterest vicissitude was the\nclouding of his soul's hope by the wings of a strange multitude of\ndreams--one of whom and whose end I have elsewhere written: and he told\nme once how, \"as our forefathers and elders believed and still believe,\nthat Holy Spirit shall come again which once was mortally born among us\nas the Son of God, but, then, shall be the Daughter of God. The Divine\nSpirit shall come again as a Woman. Then for the first time the world\nwill know peace.\" And when I asked him if it were not prophesied that\nthe Woman is to be born in Iona, he said that if this prophecy had been\nmade it was doubtless of an Iona that was symbolic, but that this was a\nmatter of no moment, for She would rise suddenly in many hearts, and\nhave her habitation among dreams and hopes. The other who spoke to me of\nthis Woman who is to save was an old fisherman of a remote island of the\nHebrides, and one to whom I owe more than to any other spiritual\ninfluence in my childhood, for it was he who opened to me the three\ngates of Beauty. Once this old man, Seumas Macleod, took me with him to\na lonely haven in the rocks, and held me on his knee as we sat watching\nthe sun sink and the moon climb out of the eastern wave. I saw no one,\nbut abruptly he rose and put me from him, and bowed his grey head as he\nknelt before one who suddenly was standing in that place. I asked\neagerly who it was. He told me that it was an Angel. Later, I learned (I\nremember my disappointment that the beautiful vision was not winged with\ngreat white wings) that the Angel was one soft flame of pure white, and\nthat below the soles of his feet were curling scarlet flames. He had\ncome in answer to the old man's prayer. He had come to say that we could\nnot see the Divine One whom we awaited. \"But you will yet see that Holy\nBeauty,\" said the Angel, and Seumas believed, and I too believed, and\nbelieve. He took my hand, and I knelt beside him, and he bade me repeat\nthe words he said. And that was how I first prayed to Her who shall yet\nbe the Balm of the World.\n\nAnd since then I have learned, and do see, that not only prophecies and\nhopes, and desires unclothed yet in word or thought, foretell her\ncoming, but already a multitude of spirits are in the gardens of the\nsoul, and are sowing seed and calling upon the wind of the south; and\nthat everywhere are watching eyes and uplifted hands, and signs which\ncannot be mistaken, in many lands, in many peoples, in many minds; and,\nin the heaven itself that the soul sees, the surpassing signature.\n\nI recall one whom I knew, a fisherman of the little green island: and I\ntell this story of Coll here, for it is to me more than the story of a\ndreaming islander. One night, lying upon the hillock that is called\nCnoc-nan-Aingeal, because it is here that St. Colum was wont to hold\nconverse with an angel out of heaven, he watched the moonlight move like\na slow fin through the sea: and in his heart were desires as infinite as\nthe waves of the sea, the moving homes of the dead.\n\nAnd while he lay and dreamed, his thoughts idly adrift as a net in deep\nwaters, he closed his eyes, muttering the Gaelic words of an old line,\n\n_In the Isle of Dreams God shall yet fulfil Himself anew_.\n\nHearing a footfall, he stirred. A man stood beside him. He did not know\nthe man, who was young, and had eyes dark as hill-tarns, with hair light\nand soft as thistledown; and moved light as a shadow, delicately\ntreading the grass as the wind treads it. In his hair he had twined the\nfantastic leaf of the horn-poppy.\n\nThe islander did not move or speak: it was as though a spell were upon\nhim.\n\n\"God be with you,\" he said at last, uttering the common salutation.\n\n\"And with you, Coll mac Coll,\" answered the stranger. Coll looked at\nhim. Who was this man, with the sea-poppy in his hair, who, unknown,\nknew him by name? He had heard of one whom he did not wish to meet, the\nGreen Harper: also of a grey man of the sea whom islesmen seldom alluded\nto by name: again, there was the Amadan Dhu ... but at that name Coll\nmade the sign of the cross, and remembering what Father Allan had told\nhim in South Uist, muttered a holy exorcism of the Trinity.\n\nThe man smiled.\n\n\"You need have no fear, Coll mac Coll,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"You that know my name so well are welcome, but if you in turn would\ntell me your name I should be glad.\"\n\n\"I have no name that I can tell you,\" answered the stranger gravely;\n\"but I am not of those who are unfriendly. And because you can see me\nand speak to me, I will help you to whatsoever you may wish.\"\n\nColl laughed.\n\n\"Neither you nor any man can do that. For now that I have neither father\nnor mother, nor brother nor sister, and my lass too is dead, I wish\nneither for sheep nor cattle, nor for new nets and a fine boat, nor a\nbig house, nor as much money as MacCailein Mor has in the bank at\nInveraora.\"\n\n\"What then do you wish for, Coll mac Coll?\"\n\n\"I do not wish for what cannot be, or I would wish to see again the dear\nface of Morag, my lass. But I wish for all the glory and wonder and\npower there is in the world, and to have it all at my feet, and to know\neverything that the Holy Father himself knows, and have kings coming to\nme as the crofters come to MacCailein Mor's factor.\"\n\n\"You can have that, Coll mac Coll,\" said the Green Harper, and he waved\na withe of hazel he had in his hand.\n\n\"What is that for?\" said Coll.\n\n\"It is to open a door that is in the air. And now, Coll, if that is your\nwish of all wishes, and you will give up all other wishes for that wish,\nyou can have the sovereignty of the world. Ay, and more than that: you\nshall have the sun like a golden jewel in the hollow of your right hand,\nand all the stars as pearls in your left, and have the moon as a white\nshining opal above your brows, with all knowledge behind the sun, within\nthe moon, and beyond the stars.\"\n\nColl's face shone. He stood, waiting. Just then he heard a familiar\nsound in the dusk. The tears came into his eyes.\n\n\"Give me instead,\" he cried, \"give me a warm breast-feather from that\ngrey dove of the woods that is winging home to her young.\" He looked as\none moon-dazed. None stood beside him. He was alone. Was it a dream, he\nwondered? But a weight was lifted from his heart. Peace fell upon him as\ndew upon grey pastures. Slowly he walked homeward. Once, glancing back,\nhe saw a white figure upon the knoll, with a face noble and beautiful.\nWas it Colum himself come again? he mused: or that white angel with whom\nthe Saint was wont to discourse, and who brought him intimacies of God?\nor was it but the wave-fire of his dreaming mind, as lonely and cold and\nunreal as that which the wind of the south makes upon the wandering\nhearths of the sea?\n\nI tell this story of Coll here, for, as I have said, it is to me more\nthan the story of a dreaming islander. He stands for the soul of a race.\nIt is because, to me, he stands for the sorrowful genius of our race,\nthat I have spoken of him here. Below all the strife of lesser desires,\nbelow all that he has in common with other men, he has the livelong\nunquenchable thirst for the things of the spirit. This is the thirst\nthat makes him turn so often from the near securities and prosperities,\nand indeed all beside, setting his heart aflame with vain, because\nillimitable, desires. For him, the wisdom before which knowledge is a\nfrosty breath: the beauty that is beyond what is beautiful. For, like\nColl, the world itself has not enough to give him. And at the last, and\nabove all, he is like Coll in this, that the sun and moon and stars\nthemselves may become as trampled dust, for only a breast-feather of\nthat Dove of the Eternal, which may have its birth in mortal love, but\nhas its evening home where are the dews of immortality.\n\n\n\"The Dove of the Eternal.\" It was from the lips of an old priest of the\nHebrides that I first heard these words. I was a child, and asked him if\nit was a white dove, such as I had seen fanning the sunglow in\nIcolmkill.\n\n\"Yes,\" he told me, \"the Dove is white, and it was beloved of Colum, and\nis of you, little one, and of me.\"\n\n\"Then it is not dead?\"\n\n\"It is not dead.\"\n\nI was in a more wild and rocky isle than Iona then, and when I went\ninto a solitary place close by my home it was to a stony wilderness so\ndesolate that in many moods I could not bear it. But that day, though\nthere were no sheep lying beside boulders as grey and still, nor\nwhinnying goats (creatures that have always seemed to me strangely\nhomeless, so that, as a child, it was often my noon-fancy on hot days to\nplay to them on a little reed-flute I was skilled in making, thwarting\nthe hill-wind at the small holes to the fashioning of a rude furtive\nmusic, which I believed comforted the goats, though why I did not know,\nand probably did not try to know): and though I could hear nothing but\nthe soft, swift, slipping feet of the wind among the rocks and grass and\na noise of the tide crawling up from a shore hidden behind crags\n(beloved of swallows for the small honey-flies which fed upon the\nthyme): still, on that day, I was not ill at ease, nor in any way\ndisquieted. But before me I saw a white rock-dove, and followed it\ngladly. It flew circling among the crags, and once I thought it had\npassed seaward; but it came again, and alit on a boulder.\n\nI went upon my knees, and prayed to it, and, as nearly as I can\nremember, in these words:--\n\n\"O Dove of the Eternal, I want to love you, and you to love me: and if\nyou live on Iona, I want you to show me, when I go there again, the\nplace where Colum the Holy talked with an angel. And I want to live as\nlong as you, Dove\" (I remember thinking this might seem disrespectful,\nand that I added hurriedly and apologetically), \"Dove of the Eternal.\"\n\nThat evening I told Father Ivor what I had done. He did not laugh at me.\nHe took me on his knee, and stroked my hair, and for a long time was so\nsilent that I thought he was dreaming. He put me gently from him, and\nkneeled at the chair, and made this simple prayer which I have never\nforgotten: \"O Dove of the Eternal, grant the little one's prayer.\"\n\nThat is a long while ago now, and I have sojourned since in Iona, and\nthere and elsewhere known the wild doves of thought and dream. But I\nhave not, though I have longed, seen again the White Dove that Colum so\nloved. For long I thought it must have left Iona and Barra too, when\nFather Ivor died.\n\nYet I have not forgotten that it is not dead. \"I want to live as long as\nyou,\" was my child's plea: and the words of the old priest, knowing and\nbelieving were, \"O Dove of the Eternal, grant the little one's prayer.\"\n\n\nIt was not in Barra, but in Iona, that, while yet a child, I set out one\nevening to find the Divine Forges. A Gaelic sermon, preached on the\nshoreside by an earnest man, who, going poor and homeless through the\nwest, had tramped the long roads of Mull over against us, and there fed\nto flame a smouldering fire, had been my ministrant in these words. The\n\"revivalist\" had spoken of God as one who would hammer the evil out of\nthe soul and weld it to good, as a blacksmith at his anvil: and\nsuddenly, with a dramatic gesture, he cried: \"This little island of Iona\nis this anvil; God is your blacksmith: but oh, poor people, who among\nyou knows the narrow way to the Divine Forges?\"\n\nThere is a spot on Iona that has always had a strange enchantment for\nme. Behind the ruined walls of the Columban church, the slopes rise, and\nthe one isolated hill of Iona is, there, a steep and sudden wilderness.\nIt is commonly called Dun-I (_Doon-ee_), for at the summit in old days\nwas an island fortress; but the Gaelic name of the whole of this\nuplifted shoulder of the isle is Slibh Meanach. Hidden under a wave of\nheath and boulder, near the broken rocks, is a little pool. From\ngeneration to generation this has been known, and frequented, as the\nFountain of Youth.\n\nThere, through boggy pastures, where the huge-horned shaggy cattle\nstared at me, and up through the ling and roitch, I climbed: for, if\nanywhere, I thought that from there I might see the Divine Forges, or at\nleast might discover a hidden way, because of the power of that water,\ntouched on the eyelids at sunlift, at sunset, or at the rising of the\nmoon.\n\nFrom where I stood I could see the people still gathered upon the dunes\nby the shore, and the tall, ungainly figure of the preacher. In the\nnarrow strait were two boats, one being rowed across to Fionnaphort, and\nthe other, with a dun sail burning flame-brown, hanging like a bird's\nwing against Glas Eilean, on the tideway to the promontory of Earraid.\nWas the preacher still talking of the Divine Forges? I wondered; or were\nthe men and women in the ferry hurrying across to the Ross of Mull to\nlook for them among the inland hills? And the Earraid men in the\nfishing-smack: were they sailing to see if they lay hidden in the\nwilderness of rocks, where the muffled barking of the seals made the\nloneliness more wild and remote?\n\nI wetted my eyelids, as I had so often done before (and not always\nvainly, though whether vision came from the water, or from a more\nquenchless spring within, I know not), and looked into the little pool.\nAlas! I could see nothing but the reflection of a star, too obscured by\nlight as yet for me to see in the sky, and, for a moment, the shadow of\na gull's wing as the bird flew by far overhead. I was too young then to\nbe content with the symbols of coincidence, or I might have thought that\nthe shadow of a wing from Heaven, and the light of a star out of the\nEast, were enough indication. But, as it was, I turned, and walked idly\nnorthward, down the rough side of Dun Bhuirg (at Cul Bhuirg, a furlong\nwestward, I had once seen a phantom, which I believed to be that of the\nCuldee, Oran, and so never went that way again after sundown) to a\nthyme-covered mound that had for me a most singular fascination.\n\nIt is a place to this day called Dun Mananain. Here, a friend who told\nme many things, a Gaelic farmer named Macarthur, had related once a\nfantastic legend about a god of the sea. Manaun was his name, and he\nlived in the times when Iona was part of the kingdom of the Suderoeer.\nWhenever he willed he was like the sea, and that is not wonderful, for\nhe was born of the sea. Thus his body was made of a green wave. His hair\nwas of wrack and tangle, glistening with spray; his robe was of windy\nfoam; his feet, of white sand. That is, when he was with his own, or\nwhen he willed; otherwise, he was as men are. He loved a woman of the\nsouth so beautiful that she was named Dear-sadh-na-Ghrene (Sunshine). He\ncaptured her and brought her to Iona in September, when it is the month\nof peace. For one month she was happy: when the wet gales from the west\nset in, she pined for her own land: yet in the dream-days of November,\nshe smiled so often that Manaun hoped; but when Winter was come, her\nlover saw that she could not live. So he changed her into a seal. \"You\nshall be a sleeping woman by day,\" he said, \"and sleep in my dun here on\nIona: and by night, when the dews fall, you shall be a seal, and shall\nhear me calling to you from a wave, and shall come out and meet me.\"\n\nThey have mortal offspring also, it is said.\n\nThere is a story of a man who went to the mainland, but could not see to\nplough, because the brown fallows became waves that splashed noisily\nabout him. The same man went to Canada, and got work in a great\nwarehouse; but among the bales of merchandise he heard the singular note\nof the sandpiper, and every hour the sea-fowl confused him with their\ncrying.\n\nProbably some thought was in my mind that there, by Dun Mananain, I\nmight find a hidden way. That summer I had been thrilled to the inmost\nlife by coming suddenly, by moonlight, on a seal moving across the last\nsand-dune between this place and the bay called Port Ban. A strange\nvoice, too, I heard upon the sea. True, I saw no white arms upthrown, as\nthe seal plunged into the long wave that swept the shore; and it was a\ngrey skua that wailed above me, winging inland; yet had I not had a\nvision of the miracle?\n\nBut alas! that evening there was not even a barking seal. Some sheep fed\nupon the green slope of Manaun's mound.\n\n\nSo, still seeking a way to the Divine Forges, I skirted the shore and\ncrossed the sandy plain of the Machar, and mounted the upland district\nknown as Sliav Starr (the Hill of Noises), and walked to a place, to me\nsacred. This was a deserted green airidh between great rocks. From here\nI could look across the extreme western part of Iona, to where it\nshelved precipitously around the little Port-na-Churaich, the Haven of\nthe Coracle, the spot where St. Columba landed when he came to the\nisland.\n\nI knew every foot of ground here, as every cave along the wave-worn\nshore. How often I had wandered in these solitudes, to see the great\nspout of water rise through the grass from the caverns beneath, forced\nupward when tide and wind harried the sea-flocks from the north; or to\nlook across the ocean to the cliffs of Antrim, from the Carn cul Ri\nEirinn, the Cairn of the Hermit King of Ireland, about whom I had woven\nmany a romance.\n\nI was tired, and fell asleep. Perhaps the Druid of a neighbouring mound,\nor the lonely Irish King, or Colum himself (whose own Mound of the\nOutlook was near), or one of his angels who ministered to him, watched,\nand shepherded my dreams to the desired fold. At least I dreamed, and\nthus:--\n\nThe skies to the west beyond the seas were not built of flushed clouds,\nbut of transparent flame. These flames rose in solemn stillness above a\nvast forge, whose anvil was the shining breast of the sea. Three great\nSpirits stood by it, and one lifted a soul out of the deep shadow that\nwas below; and one with his hands forged the soul of its dross and\nwelded it anew; and the third breathed upon it, so that it was winged\nand beautiful. Suddenly the glory-cloud waned, and I saw the multitude\nof the stars. Each star was the gate of a long, shining road. Many--a\ncountless number--travelled these roads. Far off I saw white walls,\nbuilt of the pale gold and ivory of sunrise. There again I saw the three\nSpirits, standing and waiting. So these, I thought, were not the walls\nof Heaven, but the Divine Forges.\n\nThat was my dream. When I awaked, the curlews were crying under the\nstars.\n\nWhen I reached the shadowy glebe, behind the manse by the sea, I saw the\npreacher walking there by himself, and doubtless praying. I told him I\nhad seen the Divine Forges, and twice; and in crude, childish words told\nhow I had seen them.\n\n\"It is not a dream,\" he said.\n\nI know now what he meant.\n\n\nIt would seem to be difficult for most of us to believe that what has\nperished can be reborn. It is the same whether we look upon the dust of\nancient cities, broken peoples, nations that stand and wait, old\nfaiths, defeated dreams. It is so hard to believe that what has fallen\nmay arise. Yet we have perpetual symbols; the tree, that the winds of\nAutumn ravage and the Spring restores; the trodden weed, that in April\nawakes white and fragrant; the swallow, that in the south remembers the\nnorth. We forget the ebbing wave that from the sea-depths comes again:\nthe Day, shod with sunrise while his head is crowned with stars.\n\nFar-seeing was the vision of the old Gael, who prophesied that Iona\nwould never wholly cease to be \"the lamp of faith,\" but would in the end\nshine forth as gloriously as of yore, and that, after dark days, a new\nhope would go hence into the world. But before that (and he prophesied\nwhen the island was in its greatness)--\n\n    \"Man tig so gu crich\n    Bithidh I mar a bha,\n    Gun a ghuth mannaich\n    Findh shalchar ba ...\"\n\nquaint old-world Erse words, which mean--\n\n    \"Before this happens,\n    Iona will be as it was,\n    Without the voice of a monk,\n    Under the dung of cows.\"[2]\n\nAnd truly enough the little island was for long given over to the\nsea-wind, whose mournful chant even now fills the ruins where once the\nmonks sang matins and evensong; for generations, sheep and long-horned\nshaggy kine found their silent pastures in the wilderness that of old\nwas \"this our little seabounded Garden of Eden.\"\n\nBut now that Iona has been \"as it was,\" the other and greater change may\nyet be, may well have already come.\n\nStrange, that to this day none knows with surety the derivation or\noriginal significance of the name Iona. Many ingenious guesses have been\nmade, but of these some are obviously far-fetched, others are impossible\nin Gaelic, and all but impossible to the mind of any Gael speaking his\nancient tongue. Nearly all these guesses concern the Iona of Columba:\nfew attempt the name of the sacred island of the Druids. Another people\nonce lived here with a forgotten faith; possibly before the Picts there\nwas yet another, who worshipped at strange altars and bowed down before\nShadow and Fear, the earliest of the gods.\n\nThe most improbable derivation is one that finds much acceptance. When\nColumba and his few followers were sailing northward from the isle of\nOronsay, in quest, it is said, of this sacred island of the Druids,\nsuddenly one of the monks cried _sud i_ (_? siod e!_) \"yonder it!\" With\nsudden exultation Columba exclaimed, _Mar sud bithe I, goir thear II_,\n\"Be it so, and let it be called I\" (I or EE). We are not the wiser for\nthis obviously monkish invention. It accounts for a syllable only, and\nseems like an effort to explain the use of _I_ (II, Y, Hy, Hee) for\n\"island\" in place of the vernacular Innis, Inch, Eilean, etc. Except in\nconnection with Iona I doubt if _I_ for island is ever now used in\nmodern Gaelic. Icolmkill is familiar: the anglicised Gaelic of the Isle\nof Colum of the Church. But it is doubtful if any now living has ever\nheard a Gael speak of an island as _I_; I doubt if an instance could be\nadduced. On the other hand, _I_ might well have been, and doubtless is,\nused in written speech as a sign for Innis, as _'s_ is the common\nwriting of _agus_, and. As for the ancient word _Idh_ or _Iy_ I do not\nknow that its derivation has been ascertained, though certain Gaelic\nlinguists claim that _Idh_ and Innis are of the same root.\n\nI do not know on what authority, but an anonymous Gaelic writer, in an\naccount of Iona in 1771, alludes to the probability that Christianity\nwas introduced there before St. Columba's advent, and that the island\nwas already dedicated to the Apostle St. John, \"for it was originally\ncalled _I'Eoin_, i.e. the Isle of John, whence Iona.\" _I'eoin_ certainly\nis very close in sound, as a Gael would pronounce it, to Iona, and there\ncan be little doubt that the island had druids (whether Christian monks\nalso with or without) when Columba landed. Before Conall, King of Alba\n(as he was called, though only Dalriadic King of Argyll), invited Colum\nto Iona, to make that island his home and sanctuary, there were\ncertainly Christian monks on the island. Among them was the\nhalf-mythical Odran or Oran, who is chronicled in the _Annals of the\nFour Masters_ as having been a missionary priest, and as having died in\nIona fifteen years before Colum landed. Equally certainly there were\ndruids at this late date, though discredited of the Pictish king and his\npeople, for a Cymric priest of the old faith was at that time Ard-Druid.\nThis man Gwendollen, through his bard or second-druid Myrddin (Merlin),\ndeplored the persecution to which he was subject, in that now he and his\nno longer dared to practise the sacred druidical rites \"in raised\ncircles\"--adding bitterly, \"the grey stones themselves, even, they have\nremoved.\"\n\nAgain, Davies in his _Celtic Researches_ speaks of Colum as having on\nhis settlement in Iona burnt a heap of druidical books. It is at any\nrate certain that druidical believers (helots perhaps) remained to\nColum's time, even if the last druidic priest had left. In the explicit\naccounts which survive there is no word of any dispossession of the\ndruidic priests. It is more than likely that the Pictish king, who had\nbeen converted to Christianity, and gave the island to Columba by\nspecial grant, had either already seen Irish monks inhabit it, or at\nleast had withdrawn the lingering priests of the ancient faith of his\npeople. Neither Columba nor Adamnan nor any other early chronicler\nspeaks of Iona as held by the Druids when the little coracle with the\ncross came into Port-na-Churaich.\n\nOthers have derived the name from _Aon_, an isthmus, but the objections\nto this are that it is not applicable to the island, and perhaps never\nwas; and, again, the Gaelic pronunciation. Some have thought that the\nword, when given as _I-Eoin_, was intended, not for the Isle of John,\nbut the Isle of Birds. Here, again, the objection is that there is no\nreason why Iona should be called by a designation equally applicable to\nevery one of the numberless isles of the west. To the mountaineers of\nMull, however, the little low-lying seaward isle must have appeared the\nhaunt of the myriad sea-fowl of the Moyle; and if the name thus derives,\ndoubtless a Mull man gave it.\n\nAgain, it is said that Iona is a miswriting of _Ioua_, \"the avowed\nancient name of the island.\" It is easy to see how the scribes who\ncopied older manuscripts might have made the mistake; and easy to\nunderstand how, the mistake once become the habit, fanciful\ninterpretations were adduced to explain \"Iona.\"\n\nThere is little reasonable doubt that _Ioua_ was the ancient Gaelic or\nPictish name of the island. I have frequently seen allusions to its\nhaving been called Innis nan Dhruidnechean, or Dhruidhnean, the Isle of\nthe Druids: but that is not ancient Gaelic, and I do not think there is\nany record of Iona being so called in any of the early manuscripts.\nDoubtless it was a name given by the Shenachies or bardic story-tellers\nof a later date, though of course it is quite possible that Iona was of\nold commonly called the Isle of the Druids. In this connection I may put\non record that a few years ago I heard an old man of the western part of\nthe Long Island (Lewis), speak of the priests and ministers of to-day as\n\"druids\"; and once, in either Coll or Tiree, I heard a man say, in\nEnglish, alluding to the Established minister, \"Yes, yes, that will be\nthe way of it, for sure, for Mr. ---- is a wise druid.\" It might well\nbe, therefore, that in modern use the Isle of Druids signified only the\nIsle of Priests. There is a little island of the Outer Hebrides called\nInnis Chailleachan Dhubh--the isle of the black old women; and a legend\nhas grown up that witches once dwelt here and brewed storms and evil\nspells. But the name is not an ancient name, and was given not so long\nago, because of a small sisterhood of black-cowled nuns who settled\nthere.\n\nSt. Adamnan, ninth Abbot of Iona, writing at the end of the seventh\ncentury, invariably calls the island _Ioua_ or the _Iouan Island_.\nUnless the hypothesis of the careless scribes be accepted, this should\nbe conclusive.\n\nFor myself I do not believe that there has been any slip of _n_ for _u_.\nAnd I am confirmed in this opinion by the following circumstance. Three\nyears ago I was sailing on one of the sea-lochs of Argyll. My only\ncompanion was the boatman, and incidentally I happened to speak of some\nskerries (a group of sea-set rocks) off the Ross of Mull, similarly\nnamed to rocks in the narrow kyle we were then passing; and learned with\nsurprise that my companion knew them well, and was not only an Iona man,\nbut had lived on the island till he was twenty. I asked him about his\npeople, and when he found that I knew them he became more confidential.\nBut he professed a strange ignorance of all concerning Iona. There was\nan old Iona iorram, or boat-song, I was anxious to have: he had never\nheard of it. Still more did I desire some rendering or even some lines\nof an ancient chant of whose existence I knew, but had never heard\nrecited, even fragmentarily. He did not know of it: he \"did not know\nGaelic,\" that is, he remembered only a little of it. Well, no, he\nadded, perhaps he did remember some, \"but only just to talk to fishermen\nan' the like.\"\n\nSuddenly a squall came down out of the hills. The loch blackened. In a\nmoment a froth of angry foam drove in upon us, but the boat righted, and\nwe flew before the blast, as though an arrow shot by the wind. I noticed\na startling change in my companion. His blue eyes were wide and\nluminous; his lips twitched; his hands trembled. Suddenly he stooped\nslightly, laughed, cried some words I did not catch, and abruptly broke\ninto a fierce and strange sea-chant. It was no other than the old Iona\nrann I had so vainly sought!\n\nSome memory had awakened in the man, perhaps in part from what I had\nsaid--with the old spell of the sea, the old cry of the wind.\n\nThen he ceased abruptly, he relapsed, and with a sheepish exclamation\nand awkward movement shrank beside me. Alas, I could recall only a few\nlines; and I failed in every effort to persuade him to repeat the rann.\nBut I had heard enough to excite me, for again and again he had called\nor alluded to Iona by its ancient pre-Columban name of Ioua, and once at\nleast I was sure, from the words, that the chant was also to Ioua the\nMoon.\n\nThat night, however, he promised to tell me on the morrow all he could\nremember of the old Ioua chant. On the morrow, alas, he had to leave\nupon an unexpected business that could not be postponed, and before his\nreturn, three days later, I was gone. I have not seen him again, but it\nis to him I am indebted for the loan of an ancient manuscript map of\nIona, a copy of which I made and have by me still. It was an heirloom:\nby his own account had been in his family, in Iona, for seven\ngenerations, \"an it's Himself knows how much more.\" He had been to the\nisland the summer before, because of his father's death, and had brought\nthis coarsely painted and rudely framed map away with him. He told me\ntoo, that night, how the oldest folk on the island--\"some three or four\no' them, anyway; them as has the Gaelic\"--had the old Ioua chant in\ntheir minds. As a boy he had heard it at many a winter _ceilidh_. \"Ay,\nay, for sure, Iona was called Ioua in them old ancient days.\"\n\nMy friend also had a little book of his mother's which contained, in a\nneat hand, copies of Gaelic songs, among them some of the old Islay and\nSkye oar-chants of the _iorram_ kind. I recall an iorram that had\nhardly a word in it, but was only a series of barbaric cries, sometimes\nfull of lament (_ho-ro-aroo-arone_, _ho-ro_, _ah-hone_, _ah-hone_!),\nwhich was the Iona fisherman's song to entice seals to come near. I\nremember, too, the opening of a \"maighdean-mhara\" or mermaid song, by a\nlittle-known namesake of my own, a sister of Mary Macleod, \"the sweet\nsinger of the Hebrides,\" because it had as a heading (perhaps put there\nby the Iona scribe) some lines of Mary's that I liked well.\n\nI quote from memory, but these were to the effect that, in his home,\nwhat the Macleod loved, was playing at chess\n\n    _Agus fuaim air a chlarsaich\n    Gus e h'eachdraidh na dheigh sin\n    Greis air ursgeul na Feine_\n\n[_and the music of the harp, and the telling of tales of the feats of\nthe Feinn_ (the Fingalians).] There are not many now, I fear, who could\nfind entertainment thus, or care to sit before the peat-fires.\n\nOn one other occasion I have heard the name Ioua used by a fisherman. I\nwas at Strachnr, on Loch Fyne, and was speaking to the skipper of a\nboat's crew of Macleods from the Lews, when I was attracted by an old\nman. He knew my Uist friend, then at Strachur, who told me more than one\nstrange legend of the Sliochd-nan-Ron, the seal-men. I met the old man\nthat night before the peat-glow, and while he was narrating a story of a\nPrincess of Spain who married the King of Ireland's son, he spoke\nincidentally of their being wrecked on Iona, \"that was then called Ioua,\nay, an' that for one hundred and two hundred and three hundred years and\nthrice a hundred on the top o' that before it was Icolmkill.\"\n\nI did not know him, but a friend told me that the late Mr. Cameron, the\nminister of Brodick, in Arran, had the M.S. of an old Iona (or\nHebridean) iorram, in the refrain of which _Ioua_ was used throughout.\n\nNeither do I think the name the island now bears has anything in common\nwith _Ioua_. In a word, I am sure that the derivations of Iona are\ncommonly fanciful, and that the word is simply Gaelic for the Isle of\nSaints, and was so given it because of Columba and the abbots and monks\nwho succeeded him and his. In Gaelic, the letters _sh_ at the beginning\nof a word are invariably mute; so that _I-shona_, the Isle of Saints,\nwould be pronounced _Iona_. I think that any lingering doubt I had\nabout the meaning of the name went when I got the old map of which I\nhave spoken, and found that in the left corner was written in large rude\nletters _II-SHONA_.\n\n\nHow great a man was the Irish monk Crimthan, called Colum, the Dove:\nColumcille, the Dove of the Church. One may read all that has been\nwritten of him since the sixth century, and not reach the depths of his\nnature. I doubt if any other than a Gael can understand him aright. More\nthan any Celt of whom history tells, he is the epitome of the Celt. In\nwar, Cuchullin himself was not more brave and resourceful. Finn, calling\nhis champions to the pursuit of Grania, or Oisin boasting of the Fianna\nbefore Patrick, was not more arrogant, yet his tenderness could be as\nhis Master's was, and he could be as gentle as a young mother with her\nchild, and had a child's simplicity. He knew the continual restlessness\nof his race. He was forty-two when he settled in Iona, and had led a\nlife of frequent and severe vicissitude, often a wanderer, sometimes\nwith blood against him and upon his head, once in extremity of danger,\nan outlaw, excommunicated. But even in his haven of Iona he was not\ncontent. He journeyed northward through the Pictish realms, a more\ndangerous and obscure adventure then than to cross Africa to-day. He\nsailed to \"the Ethican island\" as St. Adamnan calls Tiree, and made of\nit a sanctuary, where prayer might rise as a continual smoke from quiet\nhomes. No fear of the savage clans of Skye--where a woman had once\nreigned with so great a fame in war that even the foremost champion of\nIreland went to her in his youth to learn arms and\nbattle-wisdom--restrained him from facing the island Picts. Long before\nHakon the Dane fought the great seafight off Largs on the mainland,\nColum had built a church there. In the far Perthshire wilds, before\nMacbeth slew Duncan the king, the strong abbot of Iona had founded a\nmonastery in that thanedom. At remote Inbhir Nis, the Inverness of\nto-day, he overcame the King of the Picts and his sullen Druids, by his\ndaring, the fierce magnetism of his will, his dauntless resource. Once,\nin a savage region, far north-eastward, towards the Scandinavian sea, he\nwas told that there his Cross would not long protect either wattled\nchurch or monk's cell: on that spot he built the monastery of Deir, that\nstood for a thousand years, and whose priceless manuscript is now one of\nthe treasures of Northumbria.\n\nColumba was at once a saint, a warrior, a soldier of Christ, a great\nabbot, a dauntless explorer, and militant Prince of the Church; and a\nstudent, a man of great learning, a poet, an artist, a visionary, an\narchitect, administrator, law-maker, judge, arbiter. As a youth this\nprince, for he was of royal blood, was so beautiful that he was likened\nto an angel. In mature manhood, there was none to equal him in stature,\nmanly beauty, strength, and with a voice so deep and powerful that it\nwas like a bell and could be heard on occasion a mile away, and once,\nindeed, at the court of King Bruidh, literally overbore and drowned a\nconcerted chorus of sullen druids. These had tried to outvoice him and\nhis monks, little knowing what a mighty force the sixty-fourth Psalm\ncould be in the throat of this terrible Culdee, who to them must have\nseemed much more befitting his house-name, Crimthan (Wolf), than \"the\nDove\"!\n\nThis vocal duel was a characteristic device of the Druids. I recall one\nnotable instance long before Colum's time, though the _Leabhar na\nH'Uidhre_ in which it is to be found was not compiled till A.D. 1000. In\nthe story of the love of Connla, son of Conn of the Hundred Battles, for\na woman of the other world, a druid asks her whence she has come, and\nwhen she answers that it is from the lands of those who live a beautiful\nand deathless life, he knows that she is a woman of the _Sidhe_. So he\nchants against the fair woman till the spell of her voice is overcome,\nand she goes away as a mist that falls on the shore, as a Hebridean poet\nwould say.[3]\n\nLater, she comes again, and now invisible to all save Connla. Conn the\nking hears her chanting to Connla that it is no such lofty place he\nholds \"amid short-lived mortals awaiting fearful death\" that he need\ndread to leave it, \"the more as the ever-living ones invite thee to be\nthe ruler over Tethra (a Kingdom of Joy).\" So once more the king calls\nupon the Ard-Druid to dispel the woman by his incantations. For a moment\nConnla wavers, but the Fairy Woman, with a music of mockery, sings to\nhim that Druidism is in ill-favour \"over yonder,\" little loved and\nlittle honoured \"there,\" for, in effect, the nations of the Shee do not\nneed that idle dream. Connla's longing is more great to him than his\nkingdom or the fires of home, and he goes with his leannanshee in a\nboat, till those on the strand see him dimly and then no more in that\nsundown glow, nor ever again. Columba, a poet and scholar familiar with\nthe old tables of his beloved Eire, probably did not forget on occasion\nto turn this druidic tale against Druidism itself, repeating how, in its\nown time, before the little bell of the tonsured folk was heard in\nIreland (so little a bell to be the tocsin of fallen gods and broken\nnations), \"Druidism is not loved, for little has it progressed to honour\non the great Righteous Strand.\"\n\n\nFor one thing of great Gaelic import, Columba has been given a singular\npre-eminence--not for his love of country, pride of race, passionate\nloyalty to his clan, to every blood-claim and foster-claim, and\nfriendship-claim, though in all this he was the very archetype of the\nclannish Gael--but because (so it is averred) he was the first of our\nrace of whom is recorded the systematic use of the strange gift of\nspiritual foresight, \"second-sight.\" It has been stated authoritatively\nthat he is the first of whom there is record as having possessed this\nfaculty; but that could only be averred by one ignorant of ancient\nGaelic literature. Even in Adamnan's chronicle, within some seventy\nyears after the death of Columba, there is record of others having this\nfaculty, apart from the perhaps more purely spiritual vision of his\nmother Aithne, when an angel raimented her with the beauty of her unborn\nson, or of his foster-father, the priest Cruithnechan, who saw the\nsingular light of the soul about his sleeping pupil, or of the abbot\nBrendan who redeemed the saint from excommunication and perhaps death by\nhis vision of him advancing with a pillar of fire before him and an\nangel on either side. (When, long years afterwards, Brendan died in\nIreland, Colum in Iona startled his monks by calling for an immediate\ncelebration of the Eucharist, because it had been revealed to him that\nSt. Brendan had gone to the heavenly fatherland yesternight: \"Angels\ncame to meet his soul: I saw the whole earth illumined with their\nglory.\") Among others there is the story of Abbot Kenneth, who, sitting\nat supper, rose so suddenly as to leave without his sandals, and at the\naltar of his church prayed for Colum, at that moment in dire peril upon\nthe sea: the story of Ernan, who, fishing in the river Fenda, saw the\ndeath of Colum in a symbol of flame: the story of Lugh mac Tailchan,\nwho, at Cloinfinchoil, beheld Iona (which he had never visited), and\nabove it a blaze of angels' wings, and Colum's soul. In the most ancient\ntales there is frequent allusion to what we call second-sight. The\nwriters alluded to could not have heard of the warning of the dread\nMor-Rigan to Cuchullin before the fatal strife of the Tain-Bo-Cuailgne;\nor Cuchullin's own pre-vision (among a score as striking) of the\nhostings and gatherings on the fatal plain of Muirthemne; or the\nAmazonian queen, Scathach's, fore-knowledge of the career and early\ndeath of the champion of the Gaels:\n\n    \"(At the last) great peril awaits thee ...\n    Alone against a vast herd:\n    Thirty years I reckon the length of thy years\n      (literally, the strength of thy valour);\n    Further than this I do not add;\"\n\nor of Deirdre's second-sight, when by the white cairn on Sliav Fuad she\nsaw the sons of Usna headless, and Illann the Fair headless too, but\nBuimne the Ruthless Red with his head upon his shoulders, smiling a grim\nsmile--when she saw over Naois, her beloved, a cloud of blood--or that,\nalas, too bitter-true a foreseeing, when in the Craebh Derg, the House\nof the Red Branch, she cried to her lover and his two brothers that\ndeath was at the door and \"grievous to me is the deed O darling\nfriends--and till the world's end Emain will not be better for a single\nnight than it is to-night.\" Or, again, of that pathetic, simultaneous\ndeath-vision of Baile the Sweet-Spoken and Aillinn, he in the north, she\nin the south, so that each out of a grief unbearable straightway died,\nas told in one of the oldest as well as loveliest of ancient Gaelic\ntales, the _Scel Baili Binnberlaig_.\n\nThere is something strangely beautiful in most of these \"second-sight\"\nstories of Columba. The faculty itself is so apt to the spiritual law\nthat one wonders why it is so set apart in doubt. It would, I think, be\nfar stranger if there were no such faculty.\n\nThat I believe, it were needless to say, were it not that these words\nmay be read by many to whom this quickened inward vision is a\nsuperstition, or a fantastic glorification of insight. I believe; not\nonly because there is nothing too strange for the soul, whose vision\nsurely I will not deny, while I accept what is lesser, the mind's\nprescience, and, what is least, the testimony of the eyes. That I have\ncause to believe is perhaps too personal a statement, and is of little\naccount; but in that interior wisdom, which is no longer the flicker of\none little green leaf but the light and sound of a forest, of which the\nleaf is a part, I know that to be true, which I should as soon doubt as\nthat the tide returns or that the sap rises or that dawn is a ceaseless\nflashing light beneath the circuit of the stars. Spiritual logic demands\nit.\n\nIt would ill become me to do otherwise. I would as little, however, deny\nthat this inward vision is sometimes imperfect and untrustworthy, as I\nwould assert that it is infallible. There is no common face of good or\nevil; and in like fashion the aspect of this so-called mystery is\nvariable as the lives of those in whom it dwells. With some it is a\nprescience, more akin to instinct than to reason, and obtains only among\nthe lesser possibilities, as when one beholds another where in the body\nnone is; or a scene not possible, there, in that place; or a face, a\nmeeting of shadows, a disclosure of hazard or accident, a coming into\nview of happenings not yet fulfilled. With some it is simply a larger\nsight, more wide, more deep; not habitual, because there is none of us\nwho is not subject to the law of the body; and sudden, because all tense\nvision is a passion of the moment. It is as the lightning, whose\nsustenance is sure for all that it has a second's life. With a few it is\na more constant companion, a dweller by the morning thought, by the\nnoon reverie, by the evening dream. It lies upon the pillow for some:\nto some it as though the wind disclosed pathways of the air; a swaying\nbranch, a dazzle on the wave, the quick recognition in unfamiliar eyes,\nis, for others, sufficient signal. Not that these accidents of the\nmanner need concern us much. We have the faculty, or we do not have it.\nNor must we forget that it can be the portion of the ignoble as well as\nof those whose souls are clear. When it is in truth a spiritual vision,\nthen we are in company of what is the essential life, that which we call\ndivine.\n\nIt was this that Columba had, this serene perspicuity. That it was a\nconscious possession we know from his own words, for he gave this answer\nto one who marvelled: \"Heaven has granted to some to see on occasion in\ntheir mind, clearly and surely, the whole of earth and sea and sky.\"\n\nIt is not unlikely that in the seventy years which elapsed between\nColum's death and the writing of that lovely classic of the Church,\nAdamnan's _Vita St. Columbae_, some stories grew around the saint's\nmemory which were rather the tribute of childlike reverence and love\nthan the actual experiences of the holy man himself. What then? A field\nin May is not the less a daughter of Spring, because the\ncowslip-wreaths found there may have been brought from little wayward\ngarths by children who wove them lovingly as they came.\n\nMany of these strange records are mere coincidences; others reveal so\nhappy a surety in the simple faith of the teller that we need only\nsmile, and with no more resentment than at a child who runs to say he\nhas found stars in a wayside pool. Others are rather the keen insight of\na ceaseless observation than the seeing of an inward sense. But, and\nperhaps oftener, they are not inherently incredible. I do not think our\nforebears did ill to give haven to these little ones of faith, rather\nthan to despise, or to drive them away.\n\nI have already spoken of Columba as another St. Francis, because of his\ntenderness for creatures. I recall now the lovely legend (for I do not\nthink Colum himself attributed \"second-sight\" to an animal) which tells\nhow the old white pony which daily brought the milk from the cow-shed to\nthe monastery came and put its head in the lap of the aged and feeble\nabbot, thus mutely to bid farewell. Let Adamnan tell it: \"This creature\nthen coming up to the saint, and knowing that his master would soon\ndepart from him, and that he would see his face no more, began to utter\nplaintive moans, and, as if a man, to shed tears in abundance into the\nsaint's lap, and so to weep, frothing greatly. Which when the attendant\nsaw, he began to drive away that weeping mourner. But the saint forbade\nhim, saying, 'Let him alone? As he loves me so, let him alone, that into\nthis my bosom he may pour out the tears of his most bitter lamentation.\nBehold, thou, a man, that hast a soul, yet in no way hast knowledge of\nmy end save what I have myself shown thee; but to this brute animal the\nMaster Himself hath revealed that his master is about to go away from\nhim.' And so saying, he blessed his sorrowing servant the horse.\"\n\nIf there be any to whom the aged Colum comforting the grief of his old\nwhite pony is a matter of disdain or derision, I would not have his soul\nin exchange for the dumb sorrow of that creature. One would fare further\nwith that sorrow, though soulless, than with the soul that could not\nunderstand that sorrow.\n\nIf one were to quote from Adamnan's three Books of the Prophecies,\nMiracles, and Visions of Columba, there would be another book. Amid much\nthat is childlike, and a little that is childish, what store of\nspiritual beauty and living symbol in these three books--the Book of\nProphetic Revelations, the Book of Miracles of Power, the Book of\nAngelic Visitations. But there, as elsewhere, one must bear in\nremembrance that, in spiritual sight, there is symbolic vision as well\nas actual vision. When Colum saw his friend Columbanus (who, unknown to\nany on Iona, had set out in his frail coracle from the Isle of Rathlin)\ntossed in the surges of Corryvrechan; or when, nigh Glen Urquhart, he\nhurried forward to minister to an old dying Pict \"who had lived well by\nthe light of nature,\" and whose house, condition, and end had been\nsuddenly revealed to him: then we have actual vision. When Aithne, his\nmother, dreamed that an angel showed her a garment of so surpassing a\nloveliness that it was as though woven of flowers and rainbows, and then\nthrew it on high, till its folds expanded and covered every mountain-top\nfrom the brows of Connaught to the feet of the Danish sea, and so\nrevealed to her what manner of son she bore within her womb; or when, in\nthe hour of Colum's death, the aged son of Tailchan beheld the whole\nexpanse of air flooded with the blaze of angels' wings, which trembled\nwith their songs: then we have symbolic vision. And sometimes we have\nthat which partakes of each, as when (as Adamnan tells us in his third\nbook) Colum saw angels standing upon the rocks on the opposite side of\nthe Sound which divides Iona from the Ross of Mull, calling to his soul\nto cross to them, yet, as they assembled and beckoned, mysteriously and\nsuddenly restrained, for his hour was not come.\n\nAnd in all actual vision there is gradation; from what is so common,\npremonition, to what is not common, prescience, and to what is rare,\nrevelation. Thus when the labourers on Iona looked up from the fields\nand saw the aged abbot whom they so loved, borne in a wagon to give them\nbenediction at seed-sowing, many among them knew that they would not see\nColum again, and Colum knew it, and so shared that premonition. And\nwhen, many years before, he and the abbot Comgell, returning from a\nfutile conference of the kings Aedh and Aidan, rested by a spring,\nconcerning which Colum said that the day would come when it would be\nfilled with human blood, \"because my people, the Hy-Neill, and the\nPictish folk, thy relations according to the flesh, will wage war by\nthis fortress of Cethirn close by,\" Comgell learned, through Colum's\nforeknowledge, of what did in truth come to pass. Again, when Colum\nbade a brother go three days thence to the sea-shore on the west side of\nIona, and lie in readiness to help \"a certain guest, a crane to wit,\nbeaten by the winds during long and circuitous and aerial flights, which\nwill arrive after the ninth hour of the day, very weary and sore\ndistressed,\" and bade him to lift it and tend it lovingly for three days\nand three nights till it should have strength to return to \"its former\nsweet home,\" and to do this out of love and courtesy because \"it comes\nfrom our fatherland\"--and when all happens and is done as the saint\nforetold and commanded, then we have revelation, the vision that is\nabsolute, the knowledge that is the atmosphere of the inevitable. It\nwould take a book indeed to tell all the stories of Columba's visionary\nand prophetic powers. That I write at this length concerning him,\nindeed, is because he is himself Iona. Columba is Christian Iona, as\nmuch as Iona is Icolmkill. I have often wondered (because of a passage\nin Adamnan) if the island be not indeed named after him, the Dove: for\nas Adamnan says incidentally, the name Columba is identical with the\nHebrew name Jonah, also signifying a Dove, and by the Hebrews pronounced\nIona.\n\nIt is enough now to recall that this man, so often erring but so human\nalways, in whose life we see the soul of Iona as in a glass, is become\nthe archetype of his race, as Iona is the microcosm of the Gaelic world.\nThat he came into this life heralded by dreams and visions, that from\nhis youth onward to old age he knew every mystery of dream and vision,\nand that before and after his death his soul was revealed to others\nthrough dreams and visions, is but an added hieratic grace: yet we do\nwell to recall often how these dreams before and these visions after\nwere angelical, and nobly beautiful: how there was left of him, and to\nhis little company, and to us for remembrance, that last signal vision\nof a blaze of angelic wings, more intolerable than the sun at noon, the\ntempestuous multitude trembling with the storm of song.\n\n\nColumba and Oran ... these are the two great names in Iona. Love and\nFaith have made one immortal; the other lives also, clothed in legend. I\nam afraid there is not much definite basis for the popular Iona legend\nof Oran. It is now the wont of guides and others to speak of the Reilig\nOdhrain, Oran's burial-place, as that of Columba's friend (and victim),\nbut it seems likelier that the Oran who lies here is he who is spoken\nof in the _Annals of the Four Masters_ as having died in the year 548,\nthat is fifteen years before Colum came to the island. This, however,\nmight well be a mistake: what is more convincing is that Adamnan never\nmentions the episode, nor even the name of Oran, nor is there mention of\nhim in that book of Colum's intimate friend and successor, Baithene,\nwhich Adamnan practically incorporated. On the other hand, the Oran\nlegend is certainly very old. The best modern rendering we have of it is\nthat of Mr. Whitley Stokes in his _Three Middle-Irish Homilies_, and\nreaders of Dr. Skene's valuable _Celtic Scotland_ recollect the\ntranslation there redacted. The episode occurs first in an ancient Irish\nlife of St. Columba. The legend, which has crystallised into a popular\nsaying, \"Uir, uir, air suil Odhrain! mu'n labhair e tuille\ncomhraidh\"--\"Earth, earth on Oran's eyes, lest he further blab\"--avers\nthat three days after the monk Oran or Odran was entombed alive (some\nsay in the earth, some in a cavity), Colum opened the grave, to look\nonce more on the face of the dead brother, when to the amazed fear of\nthe monks and the bitter anger of the abbot himself, Oran opened his\neyes and exclaimed, \"There is no such great wonder in death, nor is Hell\nwhat it has been described.\" (Ifrinn, or Ifurin--the word used--is the\nGaelic Hell, the Land of Eternal Cold.) At this, Colum straightway cried\nthe now famous Gaelic words, and then covered up poor Oran again lest he\nshould blab further of that uncertain world whither he was supposed to\nhave gone. In the version given by Mr. Whitley Stokes there is no\nmention of Odran's grave having been uncovered after his entombment. But\nwhat is strangely suggestive is that both in the oral legend and in that\nearly monkish chronicle alluded to, Columba is represented as either\nsuggesting or accepting immolation of a living victim as a sacrifice to\nconsecrate the church he intended to build.\n\nOne story is that he received a divine intimation to the effect that a\nmonk of his company must be buried alive, and that Odran offered\nhimself. In the earliest known rendering \"Colum Cille said to his\npeople: 'It is well for us that our roots should go underground here';\nand he said to them, 'It is permitted to you that some one of you go\nunder the earth of this island to consecrate it.' Odran rose up readily,\nand thus he said: 'If thou wouldst accept me,' he said, 'I am ready for\nthat.' ... Odran then went to heaven. Colum Cille then founded the\nChurch of Hii.\"\n\nIt would be a dark stain on Columba if this legend were true. But apart\nfrom the fact that Adamnan does not speak of it or of Oran, the\nprobabilities are against its truth. On the other hand, it is, perhaps,\nquite as improbable that there was no basis for the legend. I imagine\nthe likelier basis to be that a druid suffered death in this fashion\nunder that earlier Odran of whom there is mention in the _Annals of the\nFour Masters_: possibly, that Odran himself was the martyr, and the\nArd-Druid the person who had \"the divine intimation.\" Again, before it\nbe attributed to Columba, one would have to find if there is record of\nsuch an act having been performed among the Irish of that day. We have\nno record of it. It is not improbable that the whole legend is a\nsymbolical survival, an ancient teaching of some elementary mystery\nthrough some real or apparent sacrificial rite.\n\nAmong the people of Iona to-day there is a very confused idea about St.\nOran. To some he is a saint: to others an evil-doer: some think he was a\nmartyr, some that he was punished for a lapse from virtue. Some swear by\nhis grave, as though it were almost as sacred as the Black Stone of\nIona: to others, perhaps most, his is now but an idle name.\n\nBy the Black Stone of Iona! One may hear that in Icolmkill or anywhere\nin the west. It used to be the most binding oath in the Highlands, and\neven now is held as an indisputable warrant of truth. In Iona itself,\nstrangely enough, one would be much more likely to hear a statement\naffirmed \"by St. Martin's Cross.\" On this stone--the old Druidic Stone\nof Destiny, sacred among the Gael before Christ was born--Columba\ncrowned Aidan King of Argyll. Later, the stone was taken to\nDunstaffnage, where the Lords of the Isles were made princes: thence to\nScone, where the last of the Celtic Kings of Scotland was crowned on it.\nIt now lies in Westminster Abbey, a part of the Coronation Chair, and\nsince Edward I. every British monarch has been crowned upon it. If ever\nthe Stone of Destiny be moved again, that writing on the wall will be\nthe signature of a falling dynasty; but perhaps, like Iona in the island\nsaying, this can be left to the Gaelic equivalent of Nevermas, \"gus am\nbi MacCailein na' righ,\" \"till Argyll be a king.\"\n\n\nIn my childhood I well recall meeting in Iona an old man who had come\nfrom the glens of Antrim, to me memorable because he was the last\nGaelic minstrel of the old kind I have seen. \"It was a poor land,\nAntrim,\" he said, \"with no Gaelic, a bitter lot o' protestantry, an'\nlittle music.\"\n\nI remember, too, his adding in effect:\n\n\"It is in the west you should be if you want music, an' men and women\nwithout coldness or the hard mouth. In Donegal an' Mayo an' all down\nConnemara-way to the cliffs of Moher you'll hear the wind an' the voices\no' the Shee with never a man to curse the one or the other.\" I asked him\nwhy he had come to Iona. It was to see the isle of Colum, he said, \"St.\nBridget's brother, God bless the pair av' thim.\" He was on his way to\nOban, thence to go to a far place in the Athole country, where his\ndaughter had married a factor who had returned to his own land from the\nIrish west, and was the more dear to the old man because his only living\nblood-kin, and because she had called her little girl by the name of the\nold harper's long-lost love, \"my love an' my wife.\"\n\nThe last harper, though he had not his harp with him. He had come from\nDrogheda in a cattle-boat to Islay (whence he had sailed in a\nfishing-smack to Iona), and his friend the mate had promised to leave\nthe harp and his other belongings at Oban in safe keeping. He had with\nhim, however, a small instrument that he called his little clar. It was\nsomething between a guitar and a cithern, suggestive of a primitive\nviolin, and he played on it sometimes with his fingers, sometimes with a\nshort bit of wood like a child's tipcat; and, he said, could make good\nmusic with a hazel-wand or \"the dry straight rod of a quicken when\nthat's to be had.\" He said this quaint instrument had come down to him\nthrough fifty-one generations: literally, \"eleven and twice twenty\n_sheanairean_ (grandfathers, or elders or forebears),\" of whom he could\nat any moment give the pedigree of _ceithir deug air 'fhichead_, \"four\nand ten upon twenty\"--that is, to translate the Gaelic method of\nenumeration, \"thirty-four.\"\n\nThis was at the house of a minister then lodging in the island, and it\nwas he who hosted the old harper. He told me, later, that he had no\ndoubt this was the old-world cruit, the Welsh _crwth_ of to-day, and the\nonce colloquial Lowland \"crowther,\" akin to the Roman _canora cythara_,\nthe \"forebear\" of the modern Spanish guitar. To this day, I may add,\nHighlanders (at least in the west) call the guitar the\n_Cruit-Spanteach_. There seems to have been four kinds of \"harp\" in the\nold days: the clar or clarsach, the kairneen (ceirnine), the\nkreemtheencrooth (cream-thine-cruit), and the cionar cruit. The clarsach\nwas the harp proper; that is, the small Celtic harp. The ceirnine was\nthe smaller hand-harp. The \"creamthine cruit\" had six strings, and was\nprobably used chiefly at festivals, possibly for a strong sonance to\naccentuate chants; while the cionar cruit had ten strings, and was\nplayed either by a bow or with a wooden or other instrument. It must\nhave been a cionar-cruit, ancient or a rude later-day imitation, that\nthe old harper had.\n\nPoor old man, I fear he never played on his harp again; for I learned\nlater that he had found his Athole haven broken up, and his daughter and\nher husband about to emigrate to Canada, so that he went with them, and\ndied on the way--perhaps as much from the mountain-longing and\nhome-sickness as from any more tangible ill.\n\nI have a double memento of him that I value. In Islay he had bought or\nbeen given a little book of Gaelic songs (the Scoto-Gaelic must have\npuzzled him sorely, poor old _eirionnach_), and this he left behind him,\nand my minister friend gave it to me, with much of the above noted down\non its end-pages. The little book had been printed early in the century,\nand was called _Ceilleirean Binn nan Creagan Aosda_, literally\n\"Melodious Little Warblings from the Aged Rocks\"; and it has always been\ndear to me because of one lovely phrase in it about birds, where the\nunknown Gaelic singer calls them \"clann bheag' nam preas,\" the small\nclan of the bushes, equivalent in English to \"the children of the\nbushes.\" This occurs in a lovely verse--\n\n    \"Mu'n cuairt do bhruachaibh ard mo glinn,\n    Biodh luba gheuga 's orra blath,\n    's clann bheag' nam preas a' tabhairst seinn\n    Do chreagaibh aosd oran graidh.\"\n\n(\"Along the lofty sides of my glen let there be bending boughs clad in\nblossom, and the children of the bushes making the aged rocks re-echo\ntheir songs of love\")--truly a characteristic Gaelic wish,\ncharacteristically expressed.\n\nAnd though this that I am about to say did not happen on Iona, I may\ntell it here, for it was there and from an islander I heard it, an old\nman herding among the troubled rocky pastures of Sguir Mor and Cnoc na\nFhiona, in the south of that western part called Sliav Starr--one\ntranslation of which might be Wuthering Heights, for the word can be\nrendered wind-blustery or wind-noisy; though I fancy that _starr_ is, on\nIona, commonly taken to mean a strong coarse grass. (Fhiona here I take\nto be not the genitive of a name, nor that of \"wine,\" but a mis-spelling\nof _fionna_, grain.)\n\nWhen he was a boy he was in the island of Barra, he said, and he had a\nfoster-brother called Iain Macneil. Iain was born with music in his\nmind, for though he was ever a poor creature as a man, having as a child\neaten of the bird's heart, he could hear a power o' wonder in the\nwind.[4] He had never come to any good in a worldly sense, my old\nherdsman Micheil said; but it was not from want of cleverness only, but\nbecause \"he had enough with his music.\" \"Poor man, he failed in\neverything he did but that--and, sure, that was not against him, for _is\nann air an traghadh a rugadh e_--wasn't he born when the tide was\nebbing?\" Besides, there was a mystery. Iain's father was said to be an\nIona man, but that was only a politeness and a play upon words (\"_The\nHoly Isle of the Western Sea_\" could mean either Iona or the mystic\nHy-Brasil, or Tir-na-thonn of the underworld); for he had no mortal\nfather, but a man of the Smiling Distant People was his father. Iain's\nmother had loved her Leannan-shee, her fairy sweetheart, but that love\nis too strong for a woman to bear, and she died. Before Iain was born\nshe lay under a bush of whitethorn, and her Leannan appeared to her. \"I\ncan't give you life,\" he said, \"unless you'll come away with me.\" But\nshe would not; for she wished the child to have Christian baptism.\n\"Well, good-bye,\" he said, \"but you are a weak love. A woman should care\nmore for her lover than her child. But I'll do this: I'll give the child\nthe dew, an' he won't die, an' we'll take him away when we want him. An'\nfor a gift to him, you can have either beauty or music.\" \"I don't want\nthe dew,\" she said, \"for I'd rather he lay below the grass beside me\nwhen his time comes: an' as for beauty, it's been my sorrow. But because\nI love the songs you have sung to me an' wooed me with, an' made me\nforget to hide my soul from you--an' it fallen as helpless as a broken\nwave on damp sand--let the child have the _binn-beul_ an' the _lamh\nclarsaireachd_ (the melodious mouth an' the harping hand).\"\n\nAnd truly enough Iain Macneil \"went away.\" He went back to his own\npeople. It must have been a grief to him not to lie under the grass\nbeside his mother, but it was not for his helping. For days before he\nmysteriously disappeared he went about making a _ciucharan_ like a\nNovember wind, a singular plaintive moaning. When asked by his\nfoster-brother Micheil why he was not content, he answered only \"_Far am\nbi mo ghaol, bidh mo thathaich_\" (Where my Love is, there must my\nreturning be). He had for days, said Micheil, the mournful crying in the\near that is so often a presage of death or sorrow; and himself had said\nonce \"Tha 'n eabh a' m' chenais\"--the cry is in my ear. When he went\naway, that going was the way of the snow.\n\n\nIt is no wonder that legends of Finn and Oisein, of Oscur and Gaul and\nDiarmid, of Cuchullin, and many of the old stories of the Gaelic\nchivalry survive in the isles. There, more than in Ireland, Gaelic has\nsurvived as the living speech, and though now in the Inner Hebrides it\nis dying before \"an a' Beurla,\" the English tongue, and still more\nbefore the degraded \"Bheurla leathan\" or Glasgow-English of the lowland\nwest, the old vernacular still holds an ancient treasure.\n\nThe last time I sailed to Staffa from Ulva, a dead calm set in, and we\ntook a man from Gometra to help with an oar--his recommendation being\nthat he was \"cho laidir ri Cuchullin,\" as strong as Coohoolin. But\nneither in Iona nor in the northward isles nor in Skye itself, have I\nfound or heard of much concerning the great Gaelic hero. Fionn and Oisin\nand Diarmid are the names oftenest heard, both in legend and proverbial\nallusion. An habitual mistake is made by writers who speak of the famous\nCuchullin or Cuthullin mountains in Skye as having been named after\nCuchullin; and though sometimes the local guides to summer tourists may\nspeak of the Gaelic hero in connection with the mountains north of\nCoruisk, that is only because of hearsay. The Gaelic name should never\nbe rendered as the Cuthullin or Cohoolin mountains, but as the Coolins.\nThe most obvious meaning of the name _Cuilfhion_ (Kyoolyun or Coolun),\nis \"the fine corner,\" but, as has been suggested, the hills may have got\ntheir name because of the \"cuillionn mara\" or sea-holly, which is\npronounced _Ku' l'-unn_ or _coolin_. This is most probably the origin\nof the name.\n\nIn fine weather one may see from Iona the Coolins standing out in lovely\nblue against the northern sky-line, their contours the most beautiful\nfeature in a view of surpassing beauty. How often I have watched them,\nhave often dreamed of what they have seen, since Oisin passed that way\nwith Malvina: since Cuchullin learned the feats of war at Dun Scaaiah,\nfrom that great queen whose name, it is said, the island bears in\nremembrance of her; since Connlaoch, his son, set sail to meet so tragic\na death in Ireland. There are two women of Gaelic antiquity who above\nall others have always held my imagination as with a spell: Scathach or\nSgathaith (_sky-ah_), the sombre Amazonian queen of the mountain-island\n(then perhaps, as now, known also as the Isle of Mist), and Meave, the\ngreat queen of Connaught, whose name has its mountain bases in gigantic\nwars, and its summits among the wild poetry and romance of the Shee.\n\nMy earliest knowledge of the heroic cycle of Celtic mythology and\nhistory came to me, as a child, when I spent my first summer in Iona.\nHow well I remember a fantastic legend I was told: how that these far\nblue mountains, so freaked into a savage beauty, were due to the\nsword-play of Cuchullin. And this happened because the Queen o' Skye had\nput a spear through the two breasts of his love, so that he went in\namong her warrior women and slew every one, and severed the head of\nSgayah herself, and threw it into Coruisk, where to this day it floats\nas Eilean Dubh, the dark isle. Thereafter, Cuchullin hewed the\nmountain-tops into great clefts, and trampled the hills into a craggy\nwilderness, and then rushed into the waves and fought with the\nsea-hordes till far away the bewildered and terrified stallions of the\nocean dashed upon the rocks of Man and uttermost shores of Erin.\n\nThis magnificent mountain range can be seen better still from Lunga near\nIona, whence it is a short sail with a southerly wind. In Lunga there is\na hill called Cnoc Cruit or Dun Cruit, and thence one may see, as in a\nvast illuminated missal whose pages are of deep blue with bindings of\nazure and pale gold, innumerable green isles and peaks and hills of the\nhue of the wild plum. When last I was there it was a day of cloudless\nJune. There was not a sound but the hum of the wild bee foraging in the\nlong garths of white clover, and the continual sighing of a wave.\nListening, I thought I heard a harper playing in the hollow of the hill.\nIt may have been the bees heavy with the wine of honey, but I was\ncontent with my fancy and fell asleep, and dreamed that a harper came\nout of the hill, at first so small that he seemed like the green stalk\nof a lily and had hands like daisies, and then go great that I saw his\nbreath darkening the waves far out on the Hebrid sea. He played, till I\nsaw the stars fall in a ceaseless, dazzling rain upon Iona. A wind blew\nthat rain away, and out of the wave that had been Iona I saw thousands\nupon thousands of white doves rise from the foam and fly down the four\ngreat highways of the wind. When I woke, there was no one near. Iona lay\nlike an emerald under the wild-plum bloom of the Mull mountains. The\nbees stumbled through the clover; a heron stood silver-grey upon the\ngrey-blue stone; the continual wave was, as before, as one wave, and\nwith the same hushed sighing.\n\n\nTwo or three years ago I heard a boatman using a singular phrase, to the\neffect that a certain deed was as kindly a thought as that of the piper\nwho played to St. Micheil in his grave. I had never heard of this\nbefore, or anything like it, nor have I since, on lip or in book. He\ntold me that he spoke of a wandering piper known as Piobaire Raonull\nDall, Blind Piper Ronald, who fifty years or so ago used to wander\nthrough the isles and West Highlands; and how he never failed to play a\nspring on his pipes, either to please or to console, or maybe to air a\nlament for what's lost now and can't come again, when on any holy day he\nstood before a figure of the Virgin (as he might well do in Barra or\nSouth Uist), or by old tombs or habitations of saints. My friend's\nfather or one of his people, once, in the Kyles of Bute, when sailing\npast the little ruinous graveyard of Kilmichael on the Bute shore, had\ncome upon Raonull-Dall, pacing slowly before the broken stones and the\nlittle cell which legend says is both the hermitage and the grave of St.\nMicheil. When asked what he was playing and what for, in that lonely\nspot, he said it was an old ancient pibroch, the Gathering of the\nClerics, which he was playing just to cheer the heart of the good man\ndown below. When told that St. Micheil would be having his fill of good\nmusic where he was, the old man came away in the boat, and for long sat\nsilent and strangely disheartened. I have more than once since then\nsailed to that little lonely ancient grave of Kilmichael in the Kyles of\nBute, from Tignabruaich or further Cantyre, and have wished that I too\ncould play a spring upon the pipes, for if so I would play to the kind\nheart of \"Piobaire Raonull Dall.\"\n\nOf all the saints of the west, from St. Molios or Molossius (Maol-Iosa?\nthe servant by Jesus?) who has left his name in the chief township in\nArran, to St. Barr, who has given his to the largest of the Bishop's\nIsles, as the great Barra island-chain in the South Hebrides used to be\ncalled, there is none so commonly remembered and so frequently invoked\nas St. Micheil. There used to be no festival in the Western Isles so\npopular as that held on 29th September, \"La' Fheill Mhicheil,\" the Day\nof the Festival of Michael; and the Eve of Michael's Day is still in a\nfew places one of the gayest nights in the year, though no longer is\nevery barn turned into a dancing place or a place of merry-making or, at\nleast, a place for lovers to meet and give betrothal gifts. The day\nitself, in the Catholic Isles, was begun with a special Mass, and from\nhour to hour was filled with traditional duties and pleasures.\n\nThe whole of the St. Micheil ceremonies were of a remote origin, and\nsome, as the ancient and almost inexplicable dances, and their archaic\naccompaniment of word and gesture far older than the sacrificial slaying\nof the Michaelmas Lamb. It is, however, not improbable that this latter\nrite was a survival of a pagan custom long anterior to the substitution\nof the Christian for the Druidic faith.\n\nThe \"Iollach Mhicheil\"--the triumphal song of Michael--is quite as much\npagan as Christian. We have here, indeed, one of the most interesting\nand convincing instances of the transmutation of a personal symbol. St.\nMichael is on the surface a saint of extraordinary powers and the patron\nof the shores and the shore-folk: deeper, he is an angel, who is upon\nthe sea what the angelical saint, St. George, is upon the land: deeper,\nhe is a blending of the Roman Neptune and the Greek Poseidon: deeper, he\nis himself an ancient Celtic god: deeper, he is no other than Manannan,\nthe god of ocean and all waters, in the Gaelic Pantheon: as, once more,\nManannan himself is dimly revealed to us as still more ancient, more\nprimitive, and even as supreme in remote godhead, the Father of an\nimmortal Clan.\n\nTo this day Micheil is sometimes alluded to as the god Micheil, and I\nhave seen some very strange Gaelic lines which run in effect:--\n\n    \"It was well thou hadst the horse of the god Micheil\n    Who goes without a bit in his mouth,\n    So that thou couldst ride him through the fields of the air,\n    And with him leap over the knowledge of Nature\"--\n\npresumably not very ancient as they stand, because of the use of \"steud\"\nfor horse, and \"naduir\" for nature, obvious adaptations from English and\nLatin. Certainly St. Michael has left his name in many places, from the\nshores of the Hebrides to the famous Mont St. Michel of Brittany, and I\ndoubt not that everywhere an earlier folk, at the same places, called\nhim Manannan. In a most unlikely place to find a record of old hymns and\nfolk-songs, one of the volumes of Reports of the Highlands and Islands\nCommission, Mr. Carmichael many years ago contributed some of his\nunequalled store of Hebridean reminiscence and knowledge. Among these\nold things saved, there is none that is better worth saving than the\nbeautiful Catholic hymn or invocation sung at the time of the midsummer\nmigration to the hill-pastures. In this shealing-hymn the three powers\nwho are invoked are St. Micheil (for he is a patron saint of horses and\ntravel, as well as of the sea and seafarers), St. Columba, guardian of\nCattle, and the Virgin Mary, \"Mathair Uain ghil,\" \"Mother of the White\nLamb,\" as the tender Gaelic has it, who is so beautifully called the\ngolden-haired Virgin Shepherdess.\n\nIt is pleasant to think of Columba, who loved animals, and whose care\nfor his shepherd-people was always so great, as having become the patron\nsaint of cattle. It is thus that the gods are shaped out of a little\nmortal clay, the great desire of the heart, and immortal dreams.\n\nI may give the whole hymn in English, as rendered by Mr. Carmichael:\n\n    I\n\n    \"Thou gentle Michael of the white steed,\n    Who subdued the Dragon of blood,\n    For love of God and the Son of Mary,\n    Spread over us thy wing, shield us all!\n    Spread over us thy wing, shield us all!\n\n    II\n\n    \"Mary beloved! Mother of the White Lamb,\n    Protect us, thou Virgin of nobleness,\n    Queen of beauty! Shepherdess of the flocks!\n    Keep our cattle, surround us together,\n    Keep our cattle, surround us together.\n\n    III\n\n    \"Thou Columba, the friendly, the kind,\n    In name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,\n    Through the Three-in-One, through the Three,\n    Encompass us, guard our procession,\n    Encompass us, guard our procession.\n\n    IV\n\n    \"Thou Father! Thou Son! Thou Holy Spirit!\n    Be the Three-One with us day and night,\n    On the machair plain, on the mountain ridge,\n    The Three-one is with us, with His arm around our head,\n    The Three-One is with us, with his arm around our head.\"\n\nI have heard a paraphrase of this hymn, both in Gaelic and English, on\nIona; and once, off Soa, a little island to the south of Icolmkill, took\ndown a verse which I thought was local, but which I afterwards found\n(with very slight variance) in Mr. Carmichael's Governmental\nUist-Record. It was sung by Barra fishermen, and ran in effect \"O\nFather, Son, and Holy Ghost! O Holy Trinity, be with us day and night.\nOn the crested wave as on the mountain-side! Our Mother, Holy Mary\nMother, has her arm under our head; our pillow is the arm of Mary, Mary\nthe Holy Mother.\"\n\nIt is perhaps the saddest commentary that could be made on what we have\nlost that the children of those who were wont to go to rest, or upon any\nadventure, or to stand in the shadow of death, with some such words as\n\n    \"My soul is with the Light on the mountains,\n    Archangel Micheil shield my soul!\"\n\nnow go or stand in a scornful or heedless silence, or without\nremembrance, as others did who forgot to trim their lamps.\n\nWho now would go up to the hill-pastures singing the Beannachadh\nBuachailleag, the Herding Blessing? With the passing of the old language\nthe old solemnity goes, and the old beauty, and the old patient, loving\nwonder. I do not like to think of what songs are likely to replace the\nHerding Blessing, whose first verse runs thus:\n\n    \"I place this flock before me\n    As ordained by the King of the World,\n    Mary Virgin to keep them, to wait them, to watch them.\n      On hill and glen and plain,\n      On hill, in glen, on plain.\"\n\nIn the maelstrom of the cities the old race perishes, drowns. How common\nthe foolish utterance of narrow lives, that all these old ways of\nthought are superstitious. To have a superstition is, for these, a\nworse ill than to have a shrunken soul. I do not believe in spells and\ncharms and foolish incantations, but I think that ancient wisdom out of\nthe simple and primitive heart of an older time is not an ill heritage;\nand if to believe in the power of the spirit is to be superstitious, I\nam well content to be of the company that is now forsaken.\n\nBut even in what may more fairly be called superstitious, have we surety\nthat we have done well in our exchange?\n\nA short while ago I was on the hillside above one of the much-frequented\nlochs in eastern Argyll. Something brought to my mind, as I went farther\nup into the clean solitudes, one of the verses of the Herding Blessing:\n\n    \"From rocks, from snow-wreaths, from streams,\n    From crooked ways, from destructive pits,\n    From the arrows of the slim fairy women,\n      From the heart of envy, the eye of evil,\n        Keep us, Holy St. Bride.\"\n\n\"From the arrows of the slim fairy women.\" And I--do I believe in that?\nAt least it will be admitted that it is worth a belief; it is a pleasant\ndream; it is a gate into a lovely world; it is a secret garden, where\nare old sweet echoes; it has the rainbow-light of poetry. Is it not\npoetry? And I--oh yes, I believe it, that superstition: a thousand-fold\nmore real is it, more believable, than that coarse-tongued,\nill-mannered, boorish people, desperate in slovenly pleasure. For that\nwill stay, and they will go. And if I am wrong, then I will rather go\nwith it than stay with them. And yet--surely, surely the day will come\nwhen this sordidness of life as it is so often revealed to us will sink\ninto deep waters, and the stream become purified, and again by its banks\nbe seen the slim fairy women of health and beauty and all noble and\ndignified things.\n\nThis is a far cry from Iona! And I had meant to write only of how I\nheard so recently as three or four summers ago a verse of the Uist\nHerding Chant. It was recited to me, over against Dun-I, by a friend who\nis a crofter in that part of Iona. It was not quite as Mr. Carmichael\ntranslates it, but near enough. The Rann Buachhailleag is, I should add,\naddressed to the cattle.\n\n    \"The protection of God and Columba\n    Encompass your going and coming,\n    And about you be the milkmaid of the smooth white palms,\n    Briget of the clustering hair, golden brown.\"\n\nOn Iona, however, there is, so far as I remember, no special spot sacred\nto St. Micheil: but there is a legend that on the night Columba died\nMicheil came over the waves on a rippling flood of light, which was a\ncloud of angelic wings, and that he sang a hymn to the soul of the saint\nbefore it took flight for its heavenly fatherland. No one heard that\nhymn save Colum, but I think that he who first spoke of it remembered a\nmore ancient legend of how Manannan came to Cuchullin when he was in the\ncountry of the Shee, when Liban laughed.\n\n\nI spoke of Port-na-Churaich, the Haven of the Coracle, a little ago. How\nstrange a history is that of Iona since the coming of the Irish priest,\nCrimthan, or Crimmon as we call the name, surnamed Colum Cille, the Dove\nof the Church. Perhaps its unwritten history is not less strange. God\nwas revered on Iona by priests of a forgotten faith before the Cross was\nraised. The sun-priest and the moon-worshipper had their revelation\nhere. I do not think their offerings were despised. Colum, who loved the\nTrinity so well that on one occasion he subsisted for three days on the\nmystery of the mere word, did not forego the luxury of human sacrifice,\nthough he abhorred the blood-stained altar. For, to him, an obstinate\npagan slain was to the glory of God. The moon-worshipper did no worse\nwhen he led the chosen victim to the dolmen. But the moon-worshipper was\na Pict without the marvel of the written word; so he remained a heathen,\nand the Christian named himself saint or martyr.\n\nNone knows with surety who dwelled on this mysterious island before the\nfamous son of Feilim of Clan Domnhuil, great-grandson of Niall of the\nNine Hostages, came with his fellow-monks and raised the Cross among the\nwondering Picts. But the furthest record tells of worship. Legend itself\nis more ancient here than elsewhere. Once a woman was worshipped. Some\nsay she was the moon, but this was before the dim day of the\nmoon-worshippers. (In Gaelic too, as with all the Celtic peoples, it is\nnot the moon but the sun that is feminine.) She may have been an\nancestral Brighde, or that mysterious Anait whose Scythian name survives\nelsewhere in the Gaelic west, and nothing else of all her ancient glory\nbut that shadowy word. Perhaps, here, the Celts remembered one whom they\nhad heard of in Asian valleys or by the waters of Nilus, and called upon\nIsis under a new name.\n\nThe Haven of the Coracle! It was not Colum and his white-robe company\nwho first made the isle sacred. I have heard that when Mary Macleod (our\nbest-loved Hebridean poet) was asked what she thought of Iona, she\nreplied that she thought it was the one bit of Eden that had not been\ndestroyed, and that it was none other than the central isle in the\nGarden untouched of Eve or Adam, where the angels waited.\n\nMany others have dreamed by that lonely cairn of the Irish king, before\nColum, and, doubtless, many since the child who sought the Divine\nforges.\n\n\nYears afterwards I wrote, in the same place, after an absence wherein\nIona had become as a dream to me, the story of St. Briget, in the\nHebrides called Bride, under the love-name commonly given her, Muime\nChriosd--Christ's Foster-Mother. May I quote again, here, as so apposite\nto what I have written, to what indirectly I am trying to convey of the\nspiritual history of Iona, some portion of it?\n\nIn my legendary story I tell of how one called Dughall, of a kingly\nline, sailing from Ireland, came to be cast upon the ocean-shore of\nIona, then called Innis-nan-Dhruidhneach, the Isle of the Druids--for\nthis was before the cry of the Sacred Wolf was heard, as an old-time\nisland-poet has it, playing upon Colum's house-name, Crimthan,\nsignifying a wolf. The frail coracle in which he and others had crossed\nthe Moyle had been driven before a tempest, and cast at sunrise like a\nspent fish upon the rocks of the little haven that is now called\nPort-na-Churaich. All had found death in the wave except himself and the\nlittle girl-child he had brought with him from Ireland, the child of so\nmuch tragic mystery.\n\nWhen, warmed by the sun, they rose, they found themselves in a waste\nplace. Dughall was ill in his mind because of the portents, and now to\nhis fear and amaze the child Briget knelt on the stones, and, with\nclaspt hands, frail and pink as the sea-shells round about her, sang a\nsong of words which were unknown to him. This was the more marvellous,\nas she was yet but an infant, and could say few words even of Erse, the\nonly tongue she had heard.\n\nAt this portent, he knew that Aodh the Arch-Druid had spoken seeingly.\nTruly this child was not of human parentage. So he, too, kneeled; and,\nbowing before her, asked if she were of the race of the Tuatha de\nDanann, or of the older gods, and what her will was, that he might be\nher servant. Then it was that the kneeling child looked at him, and sang\nin a low sweet voice in Erse:\n\n    \"I am but a little child,\n    Dughall, son of Hugh, son of Art,\n    But my garment shall be laid\n    On the lord of the world,\n    Yea, surely it shall be that He,\n    The King of Elements Himself,\n    Shall lean against my bosom,\n    And I will give him peace,\n    And peace will I give to all who ask\n    Because of this mighty Prince,\n    And because of his Mother that is the Daughter of Peace.\"\n\nAnd while Dughall Donn was still marvelling at this thing, the\nArch-Druid of Iona approached, with his white-robed priests. A grave\nwelcome was given to the stranger. While the youngest of the servants of\nGod was entrusted with the child, the Arch-Druid took Dughall aside and\nquestioned him. It was not till the third day that the old man gave his\ndecision. Dughall Don was to abide on Iona if he so willed; but the\nchild was to stay. His life would be spared, nor would he be a bondager\nof any kind, and a little land to till would be given him, and all that\nhe might need. But of his past he was to say no word. His name was to\nbecome as nought, and he was to be known simply as Duvach. The child,\ntoo, was to be named Bride, for that was the way the name Briget is\ncalled in the Erse of the Isles.\n\nTo the question of Dughall, that was thenceforth Duvach, as to why he\nlaid so great stress on the child, who was a girl, and the reputed\noffspring of shame at that, Cathal the Arch-Druid replied thus: \"My\nkinsman Aodh of the golden hair, who sent you here, was wiser than Hugh\nthe king, and all the Druids of Aoimag. Truly, this child is an\nImmortal. There is an ancient prophecy concerning her: surely of her who\nis now here, and no other. There shall be, it says, a spotless maid born\nof a virgin of the ancient divine race in Innisfail. And when for the\nseventh time the sacred year has come, she will hold Eternity in her lap\nas a white flower. Her maiden breasts shall swell with milk for the\nPrince of the World. She shall give suck to the King of the Elements. So\nI say unto you, Duvach, go in peace. Take unto yourself a wife, and live\nupon the place I will allot on the east side of Ioua. Treat Bride as\nthough she were your soul, and leave her much alone, and let her learn\nof the sun and the wind. In the fulness of time the prophecy shall be\nfulfilled.\"\n\nSo was it, from that day of the days. Duvach took a wife unto himself,\nwho weaned the little Bride, who grew in beauty and grace, so that all\nmen marvelled. Year by year for seven years the wife of Duvach bore him\na son, and these grew apace in strength, so that by the beginning of the\nthird year of the seventh circle of Bride's life there were three\nstalwart youths to brother her, and three comely and strong lads, and\none young boy fair to see. Nor did any one, not even Bride herself,\nsaving Cathal the Arch-Druid, know that Duvach the herdsman was Dughall\nDonn, of a princely race in Innisfail.\n\nIn the end, too, Duvach came to think that he had dreamed, or at the\nleast that Cathal had not interpreted the prophecy aright. For though\nBride was of exceeding beauty, and of a holiness that made the young\ndruids bow before her as though she were a bandia, yet the world went on\nas before, and the days brought no change. Often, while she was still a\nchild, he had questioned her about the words she had said as a babe, but\nshe had no memory of them. Once, in her ninth year, he came upon her on\nthe hillside of Dun-I singing these self-same words. Her eyes dreamed\nfar away. He bowed his head, and, praying to the Giver of Light, hurried\nto Cathal. The old man bade him speak no more to the child concerning\nthe mysteries.\n\nBride lived the hours of her days upon the slopes of Dun-I, herding the\nsheep, or in following the kye upon the green hillocks and grassy dunes\nof what then, as now, was called the Machar. The beauty of the world was\nher daily food. The spirit within her was like sunlight behind a white\nflower. The birdeens in the green bushes sang for joy when they saw her\nblue eyes. The tender prayers that were in her heart were often seen\nflying above her head in the form of white doves of sunshine.\n\nBut when the middle of the year came that was (though Duvach had\nforgotten it) the year of the prophecy, his eldest son, Conn, who was\nnow a man, murmured against the virginity of Bride, because of her\nbeauty and because a chieftain of the mainland was eager to wed her. \"I\nshall wed Bride or raid Ioua,\" was the message he had sent.\n\nSo one day, before the Great Fire of the Summer Festival, Conn and his\nbrothers reproached Bride.\n\n\"Idle are these pure eyes, O Bride, not to be as lamps at thy\nmarriage-bed.\"\n\n\"Truly, it is not by the eyes that we live,\" replied the maiden gently,\nwhile to their fear and amazement she passed her hand before her face\nand let them see that the sockets were empty.\n\nTrembling with awe at this portent, Duvach intervened:\n\n\"By the sun I swear it, O Bride, that thou shalt marry whomsoever thou\nwilt and none other, and when thou wilt, or not at all, if such be thy\nwill.\"\n\nAnd when he had spoken, Bride smiled, and passed her hand before her\nface again, and all there were abashed because of the blue light as of\nmorning that was in her shining eyes.\n\nIt was while the dew was yet wet on the grass that on the morrow Bride\ncame out of her father's house, and went up the steep slope of Dun-I.\nThe crying of the ewes and lambs at the pastures came plaintively\nagainst the dawn. The lowing of the kye arose from the sandy hollows by\nthe shore, or from the meadows on the lower slopes. Through the whole\nisland went a rapid, trickling sound, most sweet to hear: the myriad\nvoices of twittering birds, from the dotterel in the seaweed, to the\nlarks climbing the blue slopes of heaven.\n\nThis was the festival of her birth, and she was clad in white. About her\nwaist was a girdle of the sacred rowan, the feathery green leaves\nflickering dusky shadows upon her robe as she moved. The light upon her\nyellow hair was as when morning wakes, laughing in wind amid the tall\ncorn. As she went she sang to herself, softly as the crooning of a dove.\nIf any had been there to hear he would have been abashed, for the words\nwere not in Erse, and the eyes of the beautiful girl were as those of\none in a vision.\n\nWhen, at last, a brief while before sunrise, she reached the summit of\nthe Scuir, that is so small a hill and yet seems so big in Iona, where\nit is the sole peak, she found three young druids there, ready to tend\nthe sacred fire the moment the sunrays should kindle it. Each was clad\nin a white robe, with fillets of oak leaves; and each had a golden\narmlet. They made a quiet obeisance as she approached. One stepped\nforward, with a flush in his face because of her beauty, that was as a\nsea-wave for grace and a flower for purity, as sunlight for joy and\nmoonlight for peace.\n\n\"Thou mayst draw near if thou wilt, Bride, daughter of Duvach,\" he said,\nwith something of reverence as well as of grave courtesy in his voice;\n\"for the holy Cathal hath said that the breath of the Source of All is\nupon thee. It is not lawful for women to be here at this moment, but\nthou hast the law shining upon thy face and in thine eyes. Hast thou\ncome to pray?\"\n\nBut at that moment a cry came from one of his companions. He turned, and\nrejoined his fellows. Then all three sank upon their knees, and with\noutstretched arms hailed the rising of God.\n\nAs the sun rose, a solemn chant swelled from their lips, ascending as\nincense through the silent air. The glory of the new day came\nsoundlessly. Peace was in the blue heaven, on the blue-green sea, and on\nthe green land. There was no wind, even where the currents of the deep\nmoved in shadowy purple. The sea itself was silent, making no more than\na sighing slumber-breath round the white sands of the isle, or a dull\nwhisper where the tide lifted the long weed that clung to the rocks.\n\nIn what strange, mysterious way, Bride did not see; but as the three\ndruids held their hands before the sacred fire there was a faint\ncrackling, then three thin spirals of blue smoke rose, and soon dusky\nred and wan yellow tongues of flame moved to and fro. The sacrifice of\nGod was made. Out of the immeasurable heaven He had come, in His golden\nchariot. Now, in the wonder and mystery of His love, He was re-born upon\nthe world, re-born a little fugitive flame upon a low hill in a remote\nisle. Great must be His love that He could die thus daily in a thousand\nplaces: so great His love that he could give up His own body to daily\ndeath, and suffer the holy flame that was in the embers He illumined to\nbe lighted and revered and then scattered to the four quarters of the\nworld.\n\nBride could bear no longer the mystery of this great love. It moved her\nto an ecstasy. What tenderness of divine love that could thus redeem the\nworld daily: what long-suffering for all the evil and cruelty done\nhourly upon the weeping earth: what patience with the bitterness of the\nblind fates! The beauty of the worship of Be'al was upon her as a golden\nglory. Her heart leaped to a song that could not be sung.\n\nBowing her head, so that the tears fell upon her hands, she rose and\nmoved away.\n\n\nElsewhere I have told how a good man of Iona sailed along the coast one\nSabbath afternoon with the Holy Book, and put the Word upon the seals of\nSoa: and, in another tale, how a lonely man fought with a sea-woman\nthat was a seal; as, again, how two fishermen strove with the sea-witch\nof Earraid: and, in \"The Dan-nan-Ron,\" of a man who went mad with the\nsea-madness, because of the seal-blood that was in his veins, he being a\nMacOdrum of Uist, and one of the Sliochd nan Ron, the Tribe of the Seal.\nAnd those who have read the tale, twice printed, once as \"The Annir\nChoille,\" and again as \"Cathal of the Woods,\" will remember how, at the\nend, the good hermit Molios, when near death in his sea-cave of Arran,\ncalled the seals to come out of the wave and listen to him, so that he\nmight tell them the white story of Christ; and how in the moonshine,\nwith the flowing tide stealing from his feet to his knees, the old saint\npreached the gospel of love, while the seals crouched upon the rocks,\nwith their brown eyes filled with glad tears: and how, before his death\nat dawn, he was comforted by hearing them splashing to and fro in the\nmoon-dazzle, and calling one to the other, \"We, too, are of the sons of\nGod.\"\n\nWhat has so often been written about is a reflection of what is in the\nmind: and though stories of the seals may be heard from the Rhinns of\nIslay to the Seven Hunters (and I first heard that of the MacOdrums, the\nseal-folk, from a Uist man), I think that it was because of what I\nheard of the sea-people on Iona, when I was a child, that they have been\nso much with me in remembrance.\n\nIn the short tale of the Moon-child, I told how two seals that had been\nwronged by a curse which had been put upon them by Columba, forgave the\nsaint, and gave him a sore-won peace. I recall another (unpublished)\ntale, where a seal called Domnhuil Dhu--a name of evil omen--was heard\nlaughing one Hallowe'en on the rocks below the ruined abbey, and calling\nto the creatures of the sea that God was dead: and how the man who heard\nhim laughed, and was therewith stricken with paralysis, and so fell\nsidelong from the rocks into the deep wave, and was afterwards found\nbeaten as with hammers and shredded as with sharp fangs.\n\nBut, as most characteristic, I would rather tell here the story of Black\nAngus, though the longer tale of which it forms a part has been printed\nbefore.\n\nOne night, a dark rainy night it was, with an uplift wind battering as\nwith the palms of savage hands the heavy clouds that hid the moon, I\nwent to the cottage near Spanish Port, where my friend Ivor Maclean\nlived with his old deaf mother. He had reluctantly promised to tell me\nthe legend of Black Angus, a request he had ignored in a sullen silence\nwhen he and Padruic Macrae and I were on the Sound that day. No tales of\nthe kind should be told upon the water.\n\nWhen I entered, he was sitting before the flaming coal-fire; for on Iona\nnow, by decree of MacCailein Mor, there is no more peat burned.\n\n\"You will tell me now, Ivor?\" was all I said.\n\n\"Yes; I will be telling you now. And the reason why I never told you\nbefore was because it is not a wise or a good thing to tell ancient\nstories about the sea while still on the running wave. Macrae should not\nhave done that thing. It may be we shall suffer for it when next we go\nout with the nets. We were to go to-night; but, no, not I, no, no, for\nsure, not for all the herring in the Sound.\"\n\n\"Is it an ancient _sgeul_, Ivor?\"\n\n\"Ay. I am not for knowing the age of these things. It may be as old as\nthe days of the Feinn, for all I know. It has come down to us. Alasdair\nMacAlasdair of Tiree, him that used to boast of having all the stories\nof Colum and Brigdhe, it was he told it to the mother of my mother, and\nshe to me.\"\n\n\"What is it called?\"\n\n\"Well, this and that; but there is no harm in saying it is called the\nDark Nameless One.\"\n\n\"The Dark Nameless One!\"\n\n\"It is this way. But will you ever have heard of the MacOdrums of Uist?\"\n\n\"Ay; the Sliochd-nan-ron.\"\n\n\"That is so. God knows. The Sliochd-nan-ron ... the progeny of the\nSeal.... Well, well, no man knows what moves in the shadow of life. And\nnow I will be telling you that old ancient tale, as it was given to me\nby the mother of my mother.\"\n\n\nOn a day of the days, Colum was walking alone by the sea-shore. The\nmonks were at the hoe or the spade, and some milking the kye, and some\nat the fishing. They say it was on the first day of the _Faoilleach\nGeamhraidh_, the day that is called _Am Fheill Brighde_, and that they\ncall Candlemas over yonder.\n\nThe holy man had wandered on to where the rocks are, opposite to Soa. He\nwas praying and praying; and it is said that whenever he prayed aloud,\nthe barren egg in the nest would quicken, and the blighted bud unfold,\nand the butterfly break its shroud.\n\nOf a sudden he came upon a great black seal, lying silent on the rocks,\nwith wicked eyes.\n\n\"My blessing upon you, O Ron,\" he said, with the good kind courteousness\nthat was his. \"_Droch spadadh ort_,\" answered the seal, \"A bad end to\nyou, Colum of the Gown.\"\n\n\"Sure now,\" said Colum angrily, \"I am knowing by that curse that you are\nno friend of Christ, but of the evil pagan faith out of the north. For\nhere I am known ever as Colum the White, or as Colum the Saint; and it\nis only the Picts and the wanton Normen who deride me because of the\nholy white robe I wear.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" replied the seal, speaking the good Gaelic as though it\nwere the tongue of the deep sea, as God knows it may be for all you, I,\nor the blind wind can say; \"well, well, let that thing be: it's a\nwave-way here or a wave-way there. But now, if it is a druid you are,\nwhether of fire or of Christ, be telling me where my woman is, and where\nmy little daughter.\"\n\nAt this, Colum looked at him for a long while. Then he knew.\n\n\"It is a man you were once, O Ron?\"\n\n\"Maybe ay and maybe no.\"\n\n\"And with that thick Gaelic that you have, it will be out of the north\nisles you come?\"\n\n\"That is a true thing.\"\n\n\"Now I am for knowing at last who and what you are. You are one of the\nrace of Odrum the Pagan?\"\n\n\"Well, I am not denying it, Colum. And what is more, I am Angus\nMacOdrum, Aonghas mac Torcall mhic Odrum, and the name I am known by is\nBlack Angus.\"\n\n\"A fitting name too,\" said Colum the Holy, \"because of the black sin in\nyour heart, and the black end God has in store for you.\"\n\nAt that Black Angus laughed.\n\n\"Why is the laughter upon you, Man-Seal?\"\n\n\"Well, it is because of the good company I'll be having. But, now, give\nme the word: Are you for having seen or heard of a woman called Kirsteen\nM'Vurich?\"\n\n\"Kirsteen--Kirsteen--that is the good name of a nun it is, and no\nsea-wanton!\"\n\n\"O, a name here or a name there is soft sand. And so you cannot be for\ntelling me where my woman is?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then a stake for your belly, and nails through your hands, thirst on\nyour tongue, and the corbies at your eyne!\"\n\nAnd, with that, Black Angus louped into the green water, and the hoarse\nwild laugh of him sprang into the air and fell dead upon the shore like\na wind-spent mew.\n\nColum went slowly back to the brethren, brooding deep. \"God is good,\" he\nsaid in a low voice, again and again; and each time that he spoke there\ncame a daisy into the grass, or a bird rose, with song to it for the\nfirst time, wonderful and sweet to hear.\n\nAs he drew near to the House of God he met Murtagh, an old monk of the\nancient race of the isles.\n\n\"Who is Kirsteen M'Vurich, Murtagh?\" he asked.\n\n\"She was a good servant of Christ, she was, in the south isles, O Colum,\ntill Black Angus won her to the sea.\"\n\n\"And when was that?\"\n\n\"Nigh upon a thousand years ago.\"\n\n\"But can mortal sin live as long as that?\"\n\n\"Ay, it endureth. Long, long ago, before Oisin sang, before Fionn,\nbefore Cuchullin, was a glorious great prince, and in the days when the\nTuatha-de-Danann were sole lords in all green Banba, Black Angus made\nthe woman Kirsteen M'Vurich leave the place of prayer and go down to\nthe sea-shore, and there he leaped upon her and made her his prey, and\nshe followed him into the sea.\"\n\n\"And is death above her now?\"\n\n\"No. She is the woman that weaves the sea-spells at the wild place out\nyonder that is known as Earraid: she that is called the sea-witch.\"\n\n\"Then why was Black Angus for the seeking her here and the seeking her\nthere?\"\n\n\"It is the Doom. It is Adam's first wife she is, that sea-witch over\nthere, where the foam is ever in the sharp fangs of the rocks.\"\n\n\"And who will he be?\"\n\n\"His body is the body of Angus, the son of Torcall of the race of Odrum,\nfor all that a seal he is to the seeming; but the soul of him is Judas.\"\n\n\"Black Judas, Murtagh?\"\n\n\"Ay, Black Judas, Colum.\"\n\n\nBut with that, Ivor Macrae rose abruptly from before the fire, saying\nthat he would speak no more that night. And truly enough there was a\nwild, lone, desolate cry in the wind, and a slapping of the waves one\nupon the other with an eerie laughing sound, and the screaming of a\nseamew that was like a human thing.\n\nSo I touched the shawl of his mother, who looked up with startled eyes\nand said, \"God be with us\"; and then I opened the door, and the salt\nsmell of the wrack was in my nostrils, and the great drowning blackness\nof the night.\n\n\nWhen I was a child I used to throw offerings--small coins, flowers,\nshells, even a newly caught trout, once a treasured flint\narrow-head--into the sea-loch by which we lived. My Hebridean nurse had\noften told me of Shony, a mysterious sea-god, and I know I spent much\ntime in wasted adoration: a fearful worship, not unmixed with\ndisappointment and some anger. Not once did I see him. I was frighted\ntime after time, but the sudden cry of a heron, or the snort of a\npollack chasing the mackerel, or the abrupt uplifting of a seal's head,\nbecame over-familiar, and I desired terror, and could not find it by the\nshore. Inland, after dusk, there was always the mysterious multitude of\nshadow. There too, I could hear the wind leaping and growling. But by\nthe shore I never knew any dread, even in the darkest night. The sound\nand company of the sea washed away all fears.\n\nI was amused not long ago to hear a little girl singing, as she ran\nwading through the foam of a troubled sunlit sea, as it broke on those\nwonderful white sands of Iona--\n\n    \"Shanny, Shanny, Shanny,\n    Catch my feet and tickle my toes!\n    And if you can, Shanny, Shanny, Shanny,\n    I'll go with you where no one knows!\"\n\nI have no doubt this daintier Shanny was my old friend Shony, whose more\nterrifying way was to clutch boats by the keel and drown the sailors,\nand make a death-necklace of their teeth. An evil Shony; for once he\nnetted a young girl who was swimming in a loch, and when she would not\ngive him her love he tied her to a rock, and to this day her long brown\nhair may be seen floating in the shallow green wave at the ebb of the\ntide. One need not name the place!\n\nThe Shanny song recalls to me an old Gaelic alphabet rhyme, wherein a\n_Maigh-deann-M'hara_, or Mermaid, stood for M, and a Suire (also a\nmermaid) stood for S; and my long perplexities as to whether I would\nknow a shuera from a midianmara when I saw either. It also recalls to me\nthat it was from a young schoolmaster priest, who had come back from\nIreland to die at home, that I first heard of the Beth-Luis-Nuin, the\nGaelic equivalent of \"the A B C.\" Every letter in the Gaelic alphabet\nis represented by a tree, and Beithe and Luis and Nuin are the Birch,\nthe Rowan, and the Ash. The reason why the alphabet is called the\nBeth-Luis-Nuin is that B, L, N, and not A, B, C, are its first three\nletters. It consists of eighteen letters--and in ancient Gaelic\nseventeen, for H (the Uath, or Whitethorn) does not exist there, I\nbelieve: and these run, B, L, N, F, S (H), D, T, C, M, G, P, R, A, O, U,\nE, I--each letter represented by the name of a tree, Birch, Rowan, Ash,\netc. Properly, there is no C in Gaelic, for though the letter C is\ncommon, it has always the sound of K.\n\nSince this page first appeared I have had so many letters about the\nGaelic alphabet of to-day that I take the opportunity to add a few\nlines. To-day as of old all the letters of the Gaelic alphabet are\ncalled after trees, from the oak to the shrub-like elder, with the\nexception of G, T, and U, which stand for Ivy, Furze and Heather. It no\nlonger runs B, L, N, etc., but in sequence follows the familiar and\namong western peoples, universal A, B, C, etc. It is, however, short of\nour Roman alphabet by eight letters J, K, Q, V, W, X, Y and Z. On the\nother hand, each of these is represented, either by some other letter\nhaving a like value or by a combination: thus K is identical with C,\nwhich does not exist in Gaelic as a soft sound any more than it does in\nGreek, but only as the C in English words such as _cat_ or _cart_, or in\ncombination with h as a gutteral as in _loch_--while v as common a sound\nin Gaelic as the hiss of s in English exists in almost every second or\nthird word as _bh_ or _mh_. The Gaelic A, B, C of to-day, then, runs as\nfollows: Ailm, Beite, Coll, Durr, Eagh, Fearn, Gath, Huath, Togh, Luis,\nMuin, Nuin, Oir, Peith, Ruis, Suil, Teine, Ur--which again is equivalent\nto saying Elm, Birch, Hazel, Oak, Aspen, Alder, Ivy, Whitethorn, Yew,\nRowan or Quicken, Vine, Ash, Spindle-tree, Pine, Elder, Willow, Furze,\nHeath.\n\nThe little girl who knew so much about Shanny knew nothing about her own\nA B C. But I owe her a debt, since through her I came upon my good\nfriend \"Gunainm.\" From her I heard first, there on Iona, on a chance\nvisit of a few summer days, of two of the most beautiful of the ancient\nGaelic hymns, the Fiacc Hymn and the Hymn of Broccan. My friend had\ndelineated them as missals, with a strangely beautiful design to each.\nHow often I have thought of one, illustrative of a line in the Fiacc\nHymn: \"There was pagan darkness in Eire in those days: the people\nadored Faerie.\" In the Broccan Hymn (composed by one Broccan in the time\nof Lugaid, son of Loegaire, A.D. 500) is one particularly lovely line:\n\"Victorious Bride (Briget) loved not this vain world: here, ever, she\nsat the seat of a bird on a cliff.\"\n\nIn a dream I dream frequently, that of being the wind, and drifting over\nfragrant hedgerows and pastures, I have often, through unconscious\nremembrance of that image of St. Bride sitting the seat of a bird on the\nedge of the cliff that is this world, felt myself, when not lifted on\nsudden warm fans of dusk, propelled as on a swift wing from the edge of\na precipice.\n\nI would that we had these winds of dream to command. I would, now that I\nam far from it, that this night at least I might pass over Iona, and\nhear the sea-doves by the ruins making their sweet mournful croon of\npeace, and lift, as a shadow gathering phantom flowers, the pale orchis\nby the lapwing's nest.\n\n\nOne day, walking by a reedy lochan on the Ross of Mull, not far inland\nfrom Fionnaphort, where is the ferry for Baile-Mor of Iona, I met an old\nman who seemed in sorrow. When he spoke I was puzzled by some words\nwhich were not native there, and then I learned that he had long lived\nin Edinburgh and later in Dunfermline, and in his work had associated\nwith Hollanders and others of the east seas.\n\nHe had come back, in his old age, to \"see the place of his two\nloves\"--the hamlet in Earraid, where his old mother had blessed him\n\"forty year back,\" and the little farm where Jean Cameron had kissed him\nand promised to be true. He had gone away as a soldier, and news reached\nthem of his death; and when he came out of the Indies, and went up Leith\nWalk to the great post-house in Edinburgh, it was to learn that the\nEarraid cottage was empty, and that Jean was no longer Jean Cameron.\n\nThere was not a touch of bitterness in the old man's words. \"It was my\nname, for one thing,\" he said simply: \"you see, there's many a 'J.\nMacdonald' in the Highland regiments; and the mistake got about that\nway. No, no--the dear lass wasna to blame. And I never lost her love.\nWhen I found out where she was I went to see her once more, an' to tell\nher I understood, an' loved her all the same. It was hard, in a way,\nwhen I found she had made a loveless marriage, but human nature's human\nnature, an' I could not but be proud and glad that she had nane but\npuir Jamie Macdonald in her heart. I told her I would be true to her,\nand since she was poor, would help her, an' wi' God's kindness true I\nwas, an' helped her too. For her man did an awfu' business one day, and\nwas sentenced for life. She had three bairns. Well, I keepit her an'\nthem--though I ne'er saw them but once in the year, for she had come\nback to the west, her heart brast with the towns. First one bairn died,\nthen another. Then Jean died.\"\n\nThe old man resumed suddenly: \"I had put all my savings into the Grand\nNorth Bank. When that failed I had nothing, for with the little that was\ngot back I bought a good 'prenticeship for Jean's eldest. Since then\nI've lived by odd jobs. But I'm old now, an' broke. Every day an' every\nnight I think o' them two, my mother an' Jean.\"\n\n\"She must have been a leal fine woman,\" I said, but in Gaelic. With a\nflash he looked at me, and then said slowly, as if remembering, \"_Eudail\nde mhnathan an domhain_,\" \"Treasure of all the women in the world.\"\n\nI have often thought of old \"Jamie Macdonald\" since. How wonderful his\ndeep love! This man was loyal to his love in long absence, and was not\nless loyal when he found that she was the wife of another; and gave up\nthought of home and comfort and companionship, so that he might make\nlife more easy for her and the children that were not his. He had no\nouter reward for this, nor looked for any.\n\nWe crossed to Baile-Mor together, and when I came upon him next day by\nthe Reilig Odhrain, I asked him what he thought of Iona.\n\nHe looked at the grey worn stones, \"the stairway of the kings,\" the\ntombs, the carved crosses, the grey ruins of the wind-harried cathedral,\nand with a wave of his hand, said simply, \"_Comunn mo ghaoil_,\" \"'Tis a\ncompanionship after my heart.\"\n\nI do not doubt that the old man went on his way comforted by the grey\nsilence and grey beauty of this ancient place, and that he found in Iona\nwhat would be near him for the rest of his days.\n\n\nAs a child I had some wise as well as foolish instruction concerning the\nnations of Faerie. If, in common with nearly all happy children, I was\nbrought up in intimate, even in circumstantial, knowledge of \"the\nfairies\"--being charitably taught, for one thing, so that I have often\nleft a little bowl of milk, a saucerful of oatcake and honey, and the\nlike, under a wooden seat, where they would be sure to see it--I was\ntold also of the Sidhe, often so rashly and ignorantly alluded to as the\nfairies in the sense of a pretty, diminutive, harmless, natural folk;\nand by my nurse Barabal instructed in some of the ways, spells,\ninfluences, and even appearances of these powerful and mysterious clans.\n\nI do not think, unless as a very young child, I ever confused them. I\nrecollect well my pleasure at a sign of gratitude. I was fond of making\nlittle reed or bulrush or ash flutes, but once I was in a place where\nthese were difficult to get, and I lost the only one I had. That night I\nput aside a small portion of my supper of bread and milk and honey, and\nremember also the sacrifice of a gooseberry of noble proportions,\nrelinquished, not without a sigh, in favour of any wandering fairy lad.\n\nNext morning when I ran out--three of us then had a wild morning\nperformance we called some fantastic, forgotten name, and ourselves the\nSun-dancers--I saw by the emptied saucer my little reed-flute! Here was\nproof positive! I was so grateful for that fairy's gratitude, that when\ndusk came again I not only left a larger supper-dole than usual, but,\ndecked with white fox-glove bells (in which I had unbounded faith), sat\ndrenched in the dew and played my little reed. Any moment (I was sure) a\nsmall green fellow would appear, and with wild indignation I found\nmyself snatched from the grass, and my ears dinned now with reproaches\nabout the dew, now with remonstrances against \"that frightfu'\nreed-screeching that scared awa' the varry hens.\"\n\nAh, there are souls that know nothing of fairies, or music!\n\nBut the Sidhe are a very different people from the small clans of the\nearth's delight.\n\nHowever (though I could write of both a great volume), I have little to\nsay of either just now, except in one connection.\n\nIt is commonly said that the People of the Sidhe dwell within the hills,\nor in the underworld. In some of the isles their home, now, is spoken of\nas Tir-na-thonn, the Land of the Wave, or Tir-fo-Tuinn, the Land under\nthe Sea.\n\nBut from a friend, an Islander of Iona, I have learned many things, and\namong them, that the Shee no longer dwell within the inland hills, and\nthat though many of them inhabit the lonelier isles of the west, and in\nparticular The Seven Hunters, their Kingdom is in the North.\n\nSome say it is among the pathless mountains of Iceland. But my friend\nspoke to an Iceland man, and he said he had never seen them. There were\nSecret People there, but not the Gaelic Sidhe.\n\nTheir Kingdom is in the North, under the _Fir-Chlisneach_, the Dancing\nMen, as the Hebrideans call the polar aurora. They are always young\nthere. Their bodies are white as the wild swan, their hair yellow as\nhoney, their eyes blue as ice. Their feet leave no mark on the snow. The\nwomen are white as milk, with eyes like sloes, and lips like red rowans.\nThey fight with shadows, and are glad; but the shadows are not shadows\nto them. The Shee slay great numbers at the full moon, but never hunt on\nmoonless nights, or at the rising of the moon, or when the dew is\nfalling. Their lances are made of reeds that glitter like shafts of ice,\nand it is ill for a mortal to find one of these lances, for it is tipped\nwith the salt of a wave that no living thing has touched, neither the\nwailing mew nor the finned sgadan nor his tribe, nor the narwhal. There\nare no men of the human clans there, and no shores, and the tides are\nforbidden.\n\nLong ago one of the monks of Columba sailed there. He sailed for thrice\nseven days till he lost the rocks of the north; and for thrice thirty\ndays, till Iceland in the south was like a small bluebell in a great\ngrey plain; and for thrice three years among bergs. For the first three\nyears the finned things of the sea brought him food; for the second\nthree years he knew the kindness of the creatures of the air; in the\nlast three years angels fed him. He lived among the Sidhe for three\nhundred years. When he came back to Iona, he was asked where he had been\nall that long night since evensong to matins. The monks had sought him\neverywhere, and at dawn had found him lying in the hollow of the long\nwave that washes Iona on the north. He laughed at that, and said he had\nbeen on the tops of the billows for nine years and three months and\ntwenty-one days, and for three hundred years had lived among a deathless\npeople. He had drunk sweet ale every day, and every day had known love\namong flowers and green bushes, and at dusk had sung old beautiful\nforgotten songs, and with star-flame had lit strange fires, and at the\nfull of the moon had gone forth laughing to slay. It was heaven, there,\nunder the Lights of the North. When he was asked how that people might\nbe known, he said that away from there they had a cold, cold hand, a\ncold, still voice, and cold ice-blue eyes. They had four cities at the\nfour ends of the green diamond that is the world. That in the north was\nmade of earth; that in the east, of air; that in the south, of fire;\nthat in the west, of water. In the middle of the green diamond that is\nthe world is the Glen of Precious Stones. It is in the shape of a heart,\nand glows like a ruby, though all stones and gems are there. It is there\nthe Sidhe go to refresh their deathless life.\n\nThe holy monks said that this kingdom was certainly Ifurin, the Gaelic\nHell. So they put their comrade alive in a grave in the sand, and\nstamped the sand down upon his head, and sang hymns so that mayhap even\nyet his soul might be saved, or, at least, that when he went back to\nthat place he might remember other songs than those sung by the\nmilk-white women with eyes like sloes and lips red as rowans. \"Tell that\nhoney-mouthed cruel people they are in Hell,\" said the abbot, \"and give\nthem my ban and my curse unless they will cease laughing and loving\nsinfully and slaying with bright lances, and will come out of their\nsecret places and be baptized.\"\n\nThey have not yet come.\n\nThis adventurer of the dreaming mind is another Oran, that fabulous Oran\nof whom the later Columban legends tell. I think that other Orans go\nout, even yet, to the Country of the Sidhe. But few come again. It must\nbe hard to find that glen at the heart of the green diamond that is the\nworld; but, when found, harder to return by the way one came.\n\n\nOnce when I was sailing to Tiree, I stopped at Iona, and went to see an\nold woman named Giorsal. She was of my own people, and, not being\nIona-born, the islanders called her the foreigner. She had a daughter\nnamed Ealasaidh, or Elsie as it is generally given in English, and I\nwanted to see her even more than the old woman.\n\n\"Where is Elsie?\" I asked, after our greetings were done.\n\nGiorsal looked at me sidelong, and then shifted the kettle, and busied\nherself with the teapot.\n\nI repeated the question.\n\n\"She is gone,\" the old woman said, without looking at me.\n\n\"Gone? Where has she gone to?\"\n\n\"I might as well ask you to tell me that.\"\n\n\"Is she married ... had she a lover ... or ... or ... do you mean that\nshe ... that you ... have lost her?\"\n\n\"She's gone. That's all I know. But she isn't married, so far as I know:\nan' I never knew any man she fancied: an' neither I nor any other on\nIona has seen her dead body; an' by St. Martin's Cross, neither I nor\nany other saw her leave the island. And that was more than a year ago.\"\n\n\"But, Giorsal, she must have left Iona and gone to Mull, or maybe gone\naway in a steamer, or----\"\n\n\"It was in midwinter, an' when a heavy gale was tearing through the\nSound. There was no steamer an' no boat that day. There isn't a boat of\nIona that could have taken the sea that day. And no--Elsie wasna\ndrowned. I see that's what's in your mind. She just went out o' the\nhouse again cryin'. I asked her what was wrong wi' her. She turned an'\nsmiled, an' because o' that terrifying smile I couldna say a word. She\nwent up behind the Ruins, an' no one saw her after that but Ian Donn. He\nsaw her among the bulrushes in the swamp over by Staonaig. She was\nlaughing an' talking to the reeds, or to the wind in the reeds. So Ian\nDonn says.\"\n\n\"And what do _you_ say, Giorsal?\"\n\nThe old woman went to the door, looked out, and closed it. When she\nreturned, she put another bit on the fire, and kept her gaze on the red\nglow.\n\n\"Do you know much about them old Iona monks?\" she asked abruptly.\n\n\"What old monks?\"\n\n\"Them as they call the Culdees. You used to be askin' lots o' questions\nabout them. Ay? well ... they aye hated folk from the North, an'\nwomen-folk above all.\"\n\nI waited, silent.\n\n\"And Elsie, poor lass, she hated them in turn. She was all for the wild\nclansmen out o' Skye and the Long Island. She said she wished the Siol\nLeoid had come to Iona before Colum built the big church. And for why?\nWell, there's this, for one thing: For months a monk had come to her o'\nnights in her sleep, an' said he would kill her, because she was a\nheathen. She went to the minister at last, an' said her say. He told her\nshe was a foolish wench, an' was sore angry with her. So then she went\nto old Mary Gillespie, out by the lochan beyond Fionnaphort on the Ross\nyonder--her that has the sight an' a power o' the old wisdom. After that\nshe took to meeting friends in the moonshine.\"\n\n\"Friends?\"\n\n\"Ay. There's no call to name names. One day she told me that she had\nbeen bidden to go over to them. If she didn't, the monks would kill her,\nthey said. The monks are still the strongest here, they told her, or she\nme, I forget which. That is, except over by Staonaig. Up between Sgeur\nIolaire and Cnoc Druidean there's a path that no monk can go. There, in\nthe old days, they burned a woman. She was not a woman, but they thought\nshe was. She was one o' the Sorrows of the Sheen, that they put out to\nsuffer for them, an' get the mortal ill. That's the plague to _them_.\nIt's ill to any that brings harm on _them_. That's why the monks arena\nstrong over by Staonaig way. But I told my girl not to mind. She was\nsafe wi' me, I said. She said that was true. For weeks I heard no more\no' that monk. One night Elsie came in smiling an' pluckin' wild roses.\n'_Breisleach_!' I cried, 'what's the meanin' o' roses in January?' She\nlooked at me, frighted, an' said nothin', but threw the things on the\nfire. It was next day she went away.\"\n\n\"And----\"\n\n\"An' that's all. Here's the tea. Ay, an' for sure here's my good man.\n_Whist_, now! Rob, do you see who's here?\"\n\nNothing is more strange than the confused survival of legends and pagan\nfaiths and early Christian beliefs, such as may be found still in some\nof the isles. A Tiree man, whom I met some time ago on the boat that was\ntaking us both to the west, told me there's a story that Mary Magdalene\nlies in a cave in Iona. She roamed the world with a blind man who loved\nher, but they had no sin. One day they came to Knoidart in Argyll. Mary\nMagdalene's first husband had tracked her there, and she knew that he\nwould kill the blind man. So she bade him lie down among some swine, and\nshe herself herded them. But her husband came and laughed at her. \"That\nis a fine boar you have there,\" he said. Then he put a spear through the\nblind man. \"Now I will take your beautiful hair,\" he said. He did this\nand went away. She wept till she died. One of Colum's monks found her,\nand took her to Iona, and she was buried in a cave. No one but Colum\nknew who she was. Colum sent away the man, because he was always mooning\nand lamenting. She had a great wonderful beauty to her.\n\nIt is characteristic enough, even to the quaint confusion that could\nmake Mary Magdalene and St. Columba contemporary. But as for the story,\nwhat is it but the universal Gaelic legend of Diarmid and Grania? They\ntoo wandered far to escape the avenger. It does not matter that their\n\"beds\" are shown in rock and moor, from Glenmoriston to Loch Awe, from\nLora Water to West Loch Tarbert, with an authenticity as absolute as\nthat which discovers them almost anywhere between Donegal and Clare; nor\nthat the death-place has many sites betwixt Argyll and Connemara. In\nGaelic Scotland every one knows that Diarmid was wounded to the death on\nthe rocky ground between Tarbert of Loch Fyne and the West Loch. Every\none knows the part the boar played, and the part Finn played.\n\nDoubtless the story came by way of the Shannon to the Loch of Shadows,\nor from Cuchullin's land to Dun Sobhairce on the Antrim coast, and\nthence to the Scottish mainland. In wandering to the isles, it lost\nsomething both of Eire and Alba. The Campbells, too, claimed Diarmid;\nand so the Hebrideans would as soon forget him. So, there, by one byplay\nof the mind or another, it survived in changing raiment. Perhaps an\nislesman had heard a strange legend about Mary Magdalene, and so named\nGrania anew. Perhaps a story-teller consciously wove it the new way.\nPerhaps an Iona man, hearing the tale in distant Barra or Uist, in Coll\nor Tiree, \"buried\" Mary in a cave of Icolmkill.\n\nThe notable thing is, not that a primitive legend should love fantastic\nraiment, but that it should be so much alike, where the Syrian wanders\nfrom waste to waste, by the camp-fires of the Basque muleteers, and in\nthe rainy lands of the Gael.\n\nIn Mingulay, one of the south isles of the Hebrides, in South Uist, and\nin Iona, I have heard a practically identical tale told with striking\nvariations. It is a tale so wide-spread that it has given rise to a\npathetic proverb, \"Is mairg a loisgeadh a chlarsach dut,\" \"Pity on him\nwho would burn the harp for you.\"\n\nIn Mingulay, the \"harper\" who broke his \"harp\" for a woman's love was a\nyoung man, a fiddler. For three years he wandered out of the west into\nthe east, and when he had made enough money to buy a good share in a\nfishing-boat, or even a boat itself, he came back to Mingulay. When he\nreached his Mary's cottage, at dusk, he played her favourite air, an\n\"oran leannanachd,\" but when she came out it was with a silver ring on\nher left hand and a baby in her arms. Thus poor Padruig Macneill knew\nMary had broken her troth and married another man, and so he went down\nto the shore and played a \"marbh-rann,\" and then broke his fiddle on the\nrocks; and when they came upon them in the morning he had the strings of\nit round his neck. In Uist, the instrument is more vaguely called a\n\"tiompan,\" and here, on a bitter cold night in a famine time, the\nmusician breaks it so as to feed the fire to warm his wife--a sacrifice\nill repaid by the elopement of the hard woman that night. In Iona, the\ntale is of an Irish piper who came over to Icolmkill on a pilgrimage,\nand to lay his \"peeb-h'yanna\"[5] on \"the holy stones\"; but, when there,\nhe got word that his young wife was ill, so he \"made a loan of his\nclar,\" and with the money returned to Derry, only to find that his dear\nhad gone away with a soldier for the Americas.\n\nThe legendary history of Iona would be as much Pagan as Christian.\nTo-day, at many a _ceilidh_ by the warm hearths in winter, one may hear\nallusions to the Scandinavian pirates, or to their more ancient and\nobscure kin, the Fomor.... The Fomor or Fomorians were a people that\nlived before the Gael, and had their habitations on the isles: fierce\nprowlers of the sea, who loved darkness and cold and storm, and drove\nherds of wolves across the deeps. In other words, they were elemental\nforces. But the name is sometimes used for the Norse pirates who ravaged\nthe west, from the Lews to the town of the Hurdle-ford.\n\nIn poetic narration \"the men of Lochlin\" occurs oftener: sometimes the\nSummer-sailors, as the Vikings called themselves; sometimes, perhaps\noftenest, the Danes. The Vikings have left numerous personal names among\nthe islanders, notably the general term \"summer-sailors,\" _somerledi_,\nwhich survives as Somerled. Many Macleods and Macdonalds are called\nSomerled, Torquil (also Torcall, Thorkill), and Manus (Magnus), and in\nthe Hebrides surnames such as Odrum betray a Norse origin. A glance at\nany good map will reveal how largely the capes and promontories and\nheadlands, and small bays and havens of the west, remember the lords of\nthe Suderoeer.\n\nThe fascination of this legendary history is in its contrast of the\nbarbaric and the spiritual. Since I was a child I have been held\nspellbound by this singular union. To see the Virgin Mary in the sombre\nand terrible figure of the Washer of the Ford, or spiritual destiny in\nthat of the Woman with the Net, was natural: as to believe that the\nsame Columba could be as tender as St. Bride or gentle as St. Francis,\nand yet could thrust the living Oran back into his grave, or prophesy,\nas though himself a believer in the druidic wisdom, by the barking of a\nfavourite hound that had a white spot on his forehead--_Donnalaich chon\nchinain_.\n\n\nOf this characteristic blending of pagan and Christian thought and\nlegend I have tried elsewhere to convey some sense--oftener, perhaps,\nhave instinctively expressed: and here, as they are apposite to Iona, I\nwould like to select some pages as representative of three\nphases--namely, of the barbaric history of Iona, of the primitive\nspiritual history which is so childlike in its simplicity, and of that\ndirect grafting of Christian thought and imagery upon pagan thought and\nimagery which at one time, and doubtless for many generations (for it\nstill survives), was a normal unconscious method. Some five years ago I\nwrote three short Columban stories, collectively called _The Three\nMarvels of Iona_, one named \"The Festival of the Birds,\" another \"The\nSabbath of the Fishes and the Flies,\" and the third \"The Moon-Child.\" It\nis the second of these that, somewhat altered to its present use by\nrunning into it part of another Columban tale, I add now.\n\n\nBefore dawn, on the morning of the hundredth Sabbath after Colum the\nWhite had made glory to God in Hy, that was theretofore called Ioua, or\nthe Druid Isle, and is now Iona, the saint beheld his own sleep in a\nvision.\n\nMuch fasting and long pondering over the missals, with their golden and\nazure and sea-green initials and earth-brown branching letters, had made\nColum weary. He had brooded much of late upon the mystery of the living\nworld that was not man's world.\n\nOn the eve of that hundredth Sabbath, which was to be a holy festival in\nIona, he had talked long with an ancient greybeard out of a remote isle\nin the north, the wild Isle of the Mountains, where Scathach the queen\nhanged the men of Lochlin by their yellow hair.\n\nThis man's name was Ardan, and he was of the ancient people. He had come\nto Iona because of two things. Maolmor, the king of the northern Picts,\nhad sent him to learn of Colum what was this god-teaching he had brought\nout of Eire: and for himself he had come when old age was upon him, to\nsee what manner of man this Colum was, who had made Ioua, that was\n\"Innis-nan-Dhruidhnean\"--the Isle of the Druids--into a place of new\nworship.\n\nFor three hours Ardan and Colum had walked by the sea-shore. Each\nlearned of the other. Ardan bowed his head before the wisdom. Colum knew\nin his heart that the Druid saw mysteries.\n\nIn the first hour they talked of God.\n\n\"Ay, sure: and now,\" said the saint, \"O Ardan the wise, is my God thy\nGod?\"\n\nAt that Ardan turned his eyes to the west. With his right hand he\npointed to the sun that was like a great golden flower. \"Truly, He is\nthy God and my God.\" Colum was silent. Then he said: \"Thee and thine, O\nArdan, from Maolmor the Pictish king to the least of his slaves, shall\nhave a long weariness in Hell. That fiery globe yonder is but the Lamp\nof the World: and sad is the case of the man who knows not the torch\nfrom the torch-bearer.\"\n\nIn the second hour they talked of Man. While Ardan spoke, Colum smiled\nin his deep, grey eyes.\n\n\"It is for laughter that,\" he said, when Ardan ceased.\n\n\"And why will that be, O Colum Cille?\" Ardan asked. Then the smile went\nout of Colum's grey eyes, and he turned and looked about him.\n\nHe saw near, a crow, a horse, and a hound.\n\n\"These are thy brethren,\" he said scornfully.\n\nBut Ardan answered quietly, \"Even so.\"\n\nThe third hour they talked about the beasts of the earth and the fowls\nof the air.\n\nAt the last Ardan said: \"The ancient wisdom hath it that these are the\nsouls of men and women that have been, or are to be.\" Whereat Colum\nanswered: \"The new wisdom, that is old as eternity, declareth that God\ncreated all things in love. Therefore are we at one, O Ardan, though we\nsail to the Isle of Truth from the west and the east. Let there be peace\nbetween us.\" \"Peace,\" said Ardan.\n\nThat eve, Ardan of the Picts sat with the monks of Iona.\n\nColum blessed him and said a saying. Cathal of the Songs sang a hymn of\nbeauty. Ardan rose, and put the wine of guests to his lips, and chanted\nthis rann:\n\n    O Colum and monks of Christ,\n    It is peace we are having this night:\n    Sure, peace is a good thing,\n    And I am glad with the gladness.\n\n    We worship one God,\n    Though ye call him Dia--\n    And I say not, O De!\n    But cry _Bea'uil Bel_!\n\n    For it is one faith for man,\n    And one for the living world,\n    And no man is wiser than another--\n    And none knoweth much.\n\n    None knoweth a better thing than this:\n    The Sword, Love, Song, Honour, Sleep.\n    None knoweth a surer thing than this:\n    Birth, Sorrow, Pain, Weariness, Death.\n\n    Sure, peace is a good thing;\n    Let us be glad of peace:\n    We are not men of the Sword,\n    But of the Rune and the Wisdom.\n\n    I have learned a truth of Colum,\n    And he hath learned of me:\n    All ye on the morrow shall see\n    A wonder of the wonders.\n\nArdan would say no more after that, though all besought him. Many\npondered long that night. Cathal made a song of mystery. Colum brooded\nthrough the dark; but before dawn he fell asleep upon the fern that\nstrewed his cell. At dawn, with waking eyes, and weary, he saw his Sleep\nin a vision.\n\nIt stood grey and wan beside him.\n\n\"What art thou, O Spirit?\" he said.\n\n\"I am thy Sleep, Colum.\"\n\n\"And is it peace?\"\n\n\"It is peace.\"\n\n\"What wouldst thou?\"\n\n\"I have wisdom. Thy mind and thy soul were closed. I could not give what\nI brought. I brought wisdom.\"\n\n\"Give it.\"\n\n\"Behold!\"\n\nAnd Colum, sitting upon the strewed fern that was his bed, rubbed his\neyes that were heavy with weariness and fasting and long prayer. He\ncould not see his Sleep now. It was gone as smoke that is licked up by\nthe wind....\n\nFor three days thereafter Colum fasted, save for a handful of meal at\ndawn, a piece of rye-bread at noon, and a mouthful of dulse and\nspring-water at sun-down. On the night of the third day, Oran and Keir\ncame to him in his cell. Colum was on his knees lost in prayer. No sound\nwas there, save the faint whispered muttering of his lips and on the\nplastered wall the weary buzzing of a fly.\n\n\"Holy One!\" said Oran in a low voice, soft with pity and awe; \"Holy\nOne!\"\n\nBut Colum took no notice. His lips still moved, and the tangled hairs\nbelow his nether lip shivered with his failing breath.\n\n\"Father!\" said Keir, tender as a woman; \"Father!\"\n\nColum did not turn his eyes from the wall. The fly droned his drowsy hum\nupon the rough plaster. It crawled wearily for a space, then stopped.\nThe slow hot drone filled the cell.\n\n\"Father,\" said Oran, \"it is the will of the brethren that thou shouldst\nbreak thy fast. Thou art old, and God has thy glory. Give us peace.\"\n\n\"Father,\" urged Keir, seeing that Colum kneeled unnoticingly, his lips\nstill moving above his grey beard, with the white hair of him falling\nabout his head like a snowdrift slipping from a boulder. \"Father, be\npitiful! We hunger and thirst for thy presence. We can fast no longer,\nyet we have no heart to break our fast if thou art not with us. Come,\nholy one, and be of our company, and eat of the good broiled fish that\nawaiteth us. We perish for the benediction of thine eyes.\"\n\nThen it was that Colum rose, and walked slowly towards the wall.\n\n\"Little black beast,\" he said to the fly that droned its drowsy hum and\nmoved not at all; \"little black beast, sure it is well I am knowing\nwhat you are. You are thinking you are going to get my blessing, you\nthat have come out of hell for the soul of me!\"\n\nAt that the fly flew heavily from the wall, and slowly circled round and\nround the head of Colum the White.\n\n\"What think ye of that, brother Oran, brother Keir?\" he asked in a low\nvoice, hoarse because of his long fast and the weariness that was upon\nhim.\n\n\"It is a fiend,\" said Oran.\n\n\"It is an angel,\" said Keir.\n\nThereupon the fly settled upon the wall again, and again droned his\ndrowsy hot hum.\n\n\"Little black beast,\" said Colum, with the frown coming down into his\neyes, \"is it for peace you are here, or for sin? Answer, I conjure you\nin the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\"\n\n\"_An ainn an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh_,\" repeated Oran\nbelow his breath.\n\n\"_An ainn an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh_,\" repeated Keir\nbelow his breath.\n\nThen the fly that was upon the wall flew up to the roof and circled to\nand fro. And it sang a beautiful song, and its song was this:\n\n    Praise be to God, and a blessing too at that, and a blessing!\n    For Colum the White, Colum the Dove, hath worshipped;\n    Yea, he hath worshipped and made of a desert a garden,\n    And out of the dung of men's souls have made a sweet savour of\n      burning.\n\n    A savour of burning, most sweet, a fire for the altar,\n    This he hath made in the desert; the hell-saved all gladden.\n    Sure he hath put his benison, too, on milch-cow and bullock,\n    On the fowls of the air, and the man-eyed seals, and the otter.\n\n    But high in His Dun in the great blue mainland of heaven,\n    God the All-Father broodeth, where the harpers are harping His\n      glory:\n    There where He sitteth, where a river of ale poureth ever,\n    His great sword broken, His spear in the dust, He broodeth.\n\n    And this is the thought that moves in his brain, as a cloud filled\n      with thunder\n    Moves through the vast hollow sky filled with the dust of the\n      stars--\n    \"What boots it the glory of Colum, when he maketh a Sabbath to bless\n      me,\n    And hath no thought of my sons in the deeps of the air and the sea?\"\n\nAnd with that the fly passed from their vision. In the cell was a most\nwondrous sweet song, like the sound of far-off pipes over water.\n\nOran said in a low voice of awe, \"O God, our God!\"\n\nKeir whispered, white with fear, \"O God, my God!\"\n\nBut Colum rose, and took a scourge from where it hung on the wall. \"It\nshall be for peace, Oran,\" he said, with a grim smile flitting like a\nbird above the nest of his grey beard; \"it shall be for peace, Keir!\"\n\nAnd with that he laid the scourge heavily upon the bent backs of Keir\nand Oran, nor stayed his hand, nor let his three days' fast weaken the\ndeep piety that was in the might of his arm, and because of the glory of\nGod.\n\nThen, when he was weary, peace came into his heart, and he sighed\n\"_Amen_!\"\n\n\"Amen!\" said Oran the monk.\n\n\"Amen!\" said Keir the monk.\n\n\"And this thing has been done,\" said Colum, \"because of your evil wish\nand the brethren, that I should break my fast, and eat of fish, till God\nwill it. And lo, I have learned a mystery. Ye shall all witness to it on\nthe morrow, which is the Sabbath.\"\n\nThat night the monks wondered much. Only Oran and Keir cursed the fishes\nin the deeps of the sea and the flies in the deeps of the air.\n\nOn the morrow, when the sun was yellow on the brown seaweed, and there\nwas peace on the isle and upon the waters, Colum and the brotherhood\nwent slowly towards the sea.\n\nAt the meadows that are close to the sea, the saint stood still. All\nbowed their heads.\n\n\"O winged things of the air,\" cried Colum, \"draw near!\"\n\nWith that the air was full of the hum of innumerous flies, midges, bees,\nwasps, moths, and all winged insects. These settled upon the monks, who\nmoved not, but praised God in silence.\n\n\"Glory and praise to God,\" cried Colum, \"behold the Sabbath of the\nchildren of God that inhabit the deeps of the air! Blessing and peace be\nupon them.\"\n\n\"Peace! Peace!\" cried the monks, with one voice.\n\n\"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\" cried Colum\nthe White, glad because of the glory to God.\n\n\"_An ainn an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh_,\" cried the\nmonks, bowing reverently, and Oran and Keir deepest of all, because they\nsaw the fly that was of Colum's cell leading the whole host, as though\nit were its captain, and singing to them a marvellous sweet song.\n\nOran and Keir testified to this thing, and all were full of awe and\nwonder, and Colum praised God.\n\nThen the saints and the brotherhood moved onward and went upon the\nrocks. When all stood ankle-deep in the seaweed that was swaying in the\ntide, Colum cried:\n\n\"O finny creatures of the deep, draw near!\"\n\nAnd with that the whole sea shimmered as with silver and gold. All the\nfishes of the sea, and the great eels, and the lobsters and the crabs,\ncame in a swift and terrible procession. Great was the glory.\n\nThen Colum cried, \"O fishes of the deep, who is your king?\" Whereupon\nthe herring, the mackerel, and the dogfish swam forward, and each\nclaimed to be king. But the echo that ran from wave to wave said, _The\nHerring is King_!\n\nThen Colum said to the mackerel, \"Sing the song that is upon you.\"\n\nAnd the mackerel sang the song of the wild rovers of the sea, and the\nlust of pleasure.\n\nThen Colum said, \"But for God's mercy, I would curse you, O false fish.\"\n\nThen he spoke likewise to the dogfish, and the dogfish sang of slaughter\nand the chase, and the joy of blood.\n\nAnd Colum said, \"Hell shall be your portion.\"\n\nThen there was peace. And the herring said:\n\n\"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.\"\n\nWhereat all that mighty multitude, before they sank into the deep, waved\ntheir fins and their claws, each after its kind, and repeated as with\none voice:\n\n\"_An ain ann Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh!_\"\n\nAnd the glory that was upon the Sound of Iona was as though God trailed\na starry net upon the waters, with a shining star in every little\nhollow, and a flowing moon of gold on every wave.\n\nThen Colum the White put out both his arms, and blessed the children of\nGod that are in the deeps of the sea and that are in the deeps of the\nair.\n\nThat is how Sabbath came upon all living things upon Ioua that is\ncalled Iona, and within the air above Ioua, and within the sea that is\naround Ioua.\n\nAnd the glory is Colum's.\n\n\nTo illustrate the history of the island I select the following episode\nfrom _Barbaric Tales_. It deals with The Flight of the Culdees. The name\nculdee is somewhat loosely used both by mediaeval and modern writers, for\nit does not appear to have been given to the Brotherhood of the Columban\nChurch till two hundred years after Columba's death. The word may be\ntaken to mean the Cleric of God; perhaps, later, it was the equivalent\nof anchorite. This episode is, in date, about A.D. 800 or soon after.\n\n\nOn the wane of the moon, on the day following the ruin of Bail'-tiorail,\nsails were seen far east of Stromness.\n\nOlaus the White called his men together. The boats coming before the\nwind were doubtless his own galleys which he had lost when the\nsouth-gale had blown them against Skye; but no man can know when and how\nthe gods may smile grimly, and let the swords that whirl be broken, or\nthe spears that are flat become a hedge of death.\n\nAn hour later, a startled word went from viking to viking. The galleys\nin the offing were the fleet of Sweno the Hammerer. Why had he come so\nfar southward, and why were oars so swift and the stained sails\ndistended before the wind? They were soon to know.\n\nSweno himself was the first to land. A great man he was, broad and\nburly, with a sword-slash across his face that brought his brows in a\nperpetual frown above his savage blood-shot eyes.\n\nIn few words he told how he had met a galley, with only half its crew,\nand of these many who were wounded. It was the last of the fleet of Haco\nthe Laugher. A fleet of fifteen war-birlinns had set out from the Long\nIsland, and had given battle. Haco had gone into the strife, laughing\nloud as was his wont, and he and all his men had the berserk rage, and\nfought with joy and foam at the mouth. Never had the Sword sung a\nsweeter song.\n\n\"Well,\" said Olaus the White grimly, \"well, how did the Raven fly?\"\n\n\"When Haco laughed for the last time, his sword waving out of the\ndeath-tide where he sank, there was only one galley left. No more than\nnine vikings lived thereafter to tell the tale. These nine we took out\nof their boat, which was below waves soon. Haco and his men are all\nfighting the sea-shadows by now.\"\n\nA loud snarling went from man to man. This became a cry of rage. Then\nsavage shouts filled the air. Swords were lifted up against the sky; and\nthe fierce glitter of blue eyes and the bristling of tawny beards were\nfair to see, thought the captive women, though their hearts beat in\ntheir breasts like eaglets behind the bars of a cage.\n\nSweno the Hammerer frowned a deep frown when he heard that Olaus was\nthere with only the _Svart-Alf_ out of the galleys which had gone the\nsouthward way.\n\n\"If the islanders come upon us now with their birlinns we shall have to\nmake a running fight,\" he said.\n\nOlaus laughed.\n\n\"Ay, but the running shall be after the birlinns, Sweno.\"\n\n\"I hear there are fifty and nine men of these Culdees yonder under the\nsword-priest, Maoliosa?\"\n\n\"It is a true word. But to-night, after the moon is up, there shall be\nnone.\"\n\nAt that, all who heard laughed, and were less heavy in their hearts\nbecause of the slaying and drowning of Haco the Laugher and all his\ncrew.\n\n\"Where is the woman Brenda that you took?\" Olaus asked, as he stared at\nSweno's boat and saw no woman there.\n\n\"She is in the sea.\"\n\nOlaus the White looked. It was his eyes that asked.\n\n\"I flung her into the sea because she laughed when she heard of how the\nbirlinns that were under Somhairle the Renegade drove in upon our ships,\nand how Haco laughed no more, and the sea was red with viking blood.\"\n\n\"She was a woman, Sweno--and none more fair in the isles, after Morna\nthat is mine.\"\n\n\"Woman or no woman, I flung her into the sea. The Gael call us Gall:\nthen I will let no Gael laugh at the Gall. It is enough. She is drowned.\nThere are always women: one here, one there--it is but a wave blown this\nway or that.\"\n\nAt this moment a viking came running across the ruined town with\ntidings. Maoliosa and his culdees were crowding into a great birlinn.\nPerhaps they were coming to give battle: perhaps they were for sailing\naway from that place.\n\nOlaus and Sweno stared across the fjord. At first they knew not what to\ndo. If Maoliosa thought of battle he would hardly choose that hour and\nplace. Or was it that he knew the Gael were coming in force, and that\nthe vikings were caught in a trap?\n\nAt last it was clear. Sweno gave a great laugh.\n\n\"By the blood of Odin,\" he cried, \"they come to sue for peace!\"\n\nFilled with white-robed culdees, the birlinn drew slowly across the\nloch. A tall, old man stood at the prow, with streaming hair and beard,\nwhite as sea-foam. In his right hand he grasped a great Cross, whereon\nChrist was crucified.\n\nThe vikings drew close to one another.\n\n\"Hail them in their own tongue, Sweno,\" said Olaus.\n\nThe Hammerer moved to the water-edge, as the birlinn stopped, a short\narrow-flight away.\n\n\"Ho, there, priests of the Christ-faith!\"\n\n\"What would you, viking?\" It was Maoliosa himself that spoke.\n\n\"Why do you come here among us, you that are Maoliosa?\"\n\n\"To win you and yours to God, Pagan.\"\n\n\"Is it madness that is upon you, old man? We have swords and spears\nhere, if we lack hymns and prayers.\"\n\nAll this time Olaus kept a wary watch inland and seaward, for he feared\nthat Maoliosa came because of an ambush.\n\nTruly the old monk was mad. He had told his culdees that God would\nprevail, and that the pagans would melt away before the Cross. The\nebb-tide was running swift. Even while Sweno spoke, the birlinn touched\na low sea-hidden ledge of rock. A cry of consternation went up from the\nwhite-robes. Loud laughter came from the vikings.\n\n\"Arrows!\" cried Olaus.\n\nWith that threescore men took their bows. A hail of death-shafts fell.\nMany pierced the water, but some pierced the necks and hearts of the\nculdees.\n\nMaoliosa himself, stood in death transfixed to the mast. With a scream\nthe monks swept their oars backward. Then they leaped to their feet, and\nchanged their place, and rowed for life.\n\nThe summer-sailors sprang into their galley. Sweno the Hammerer was at\nthe bow. The foam curled and hissed. The birlinn of the culdees grided\nupon the opposite shore at the moment when Sweno brought down his\nbattle-axe upon the monk who steered. The man was cleft to the shoulder.\nSweno swayed with the blow, stumbled, and fell headlong into the sea. A\nculdee thrust at him with an oar, and pinned him among the sea-tangle.\nThus died Sweno the Hammerer.\n\nLike a flock of sheep the white-robes leaped upon the shore. Yet Olaus\nwas quicker than they. With a score of vikings he raced to the Church of\nthe Cells, and gained the sanctuary. The monks uttered a cry of despair,\nand, turning, fled across the sands. Olaus counted them. There were now\nforty in all.\n\n\"Let forty men follow,\" he cried.\n\nThe monks fled this way and that. Olaus, and those who watched, laughed\nto see how they stumbled, because of their robes. One by one fell,\nsword-cleft or spear-thrust. The sand-dunes were red.\n\nSoon there were fewer than a score--then twelve only--ten!\n\n\"Bring them back!\" Olaus shouted.\n\nWhen the ten fugitives were captured and brought back, Olaus took the\ncrucifix that Maoliosa had raised, and held it before each in turn.\n\n\"Smite!\" he said to the first monk. But the man would not.\n\n\"Smite!\" he said to the second; but he would not. And so it was to the\ntenth.\n\n\"Good!\" said Olaus the White; \"they shall witness to their God.\"\n\nWith that he bade his vikings break up the birlinn, and drive the planks\ninto the ground and shore them up with logs. When this was done he\ncrucified each culdee. With nails and with ropes he did unto each what\ntheir God had suffered. Then all were left there by the water-side.\n\nThat night, when Olaus the White and the laughing Morna left the great\nbonfire where the vikings sang and drank horn after horn of strong ale,\nthey stood and looked across the strait. In the moonlight, upon the dim\nverge of the island shore, they could see ten crosses. On each was a\nmotionless white splatch.\n\n\nOnce more, for an instance of the grafting of Christian thought and\nimagery on pagan thought and imagery, I take a few pages of the\nintroductory part to the story of \"The Woman with the Net,\" in a later\nvolume.[6] They tell of a young monk who, inspired by Colum's holy\nexample, went out of Iona as a missionary to the Pictish heathen of the\nnorth.\n\nWhen Artan had kissed the brow of every white-robed brother on Iona, and\nhad been thrice kissed by the aged Colum, his heart was filled with\ngladness.\n\nIt was late summer, and in the afternoon-light peace lay on the green\nwaters of the Sound, on the green grass of the dunes, on the domed\nwicker-woven cells of the culdees over whom the holy Colum ruled, and on\nthe little rock-strewn hill which rose above where stood Colum's wattled\nchurch of sun-baked mud. The abbot walked slowly by the side of the\nyoung man. Colum was tall, with hair long and heavy but white as the\ncanna, and with a beard that hung low on his breast, grey as the moss on\nold firs. His blue eyes were tender. The youth--for though he was a\ngrown man he seemed a youth beside Colum--had beauty. He was tall and\ncomely, with yellow curling hair, and dark-blue eyes, and a skin so\nwhite that it troubled some of the monks who dreamed old dreams and\nwashed them away in tears and scourgings.\n\n\"You have the bitter fever of youth upon you, Artan,\" said Colum, as\nthey crossed the dunes beyond Dun-I; \"but you have no fear, and you will\nbe a flame among these Pictish idolaters, and you will be a lamp to show\nthem the way.\"\n\n\"And when I come again, there will be clappings of hands, and hymns,\nand many rejoicings?\"\n\n\"I do not think you will come again,\" said Colum. \"The wild people of\nthese northlands will burn you, or crucify you, or put you upon the\ncrahslat, or give you thirst and hunger till you die. It will be a great\njoy for you to die like that, Artan, my son?\"\n\n\"Ay, a great joy,\" answered the young monk, but with his eyes dreaming\naway from his words.\n\nSilence was between them as they neared the cove where a large coracle\nlay, with three men in it.\n\n\"Will God be coming to Iona when I am away?\" asked Artan.\n\nColum stared at him.\n\n\"Is it likely that God would come here in a coracle?\" he asked, with\nscornful eyes.\n\nThe young man looked abashed. For sure, God would not come in a coracle,\njust as he himself might come. He knew by that how Colum had reproved\nhim. He would come in a cloud of fire, and would be seen from far and\nnear. Artan wondered if the place he was going to was too far north for\nhim to see that greatness; but he feared to ask.\n\n\"Give me a new name,\" he asked; \"give me a new name, my father.\"\n\n\"What name will you have?\"\n\n\"Servant of Mary.\"\n\n\"So be it, Artan Gille-Mhoire.\"\n\nWith that Colum kissed him and bade farewell, and Artan sat down in the\ncoracle, and covered his head with his mantle, and wept and prayed.\n\nThe last word he heard was, _Peace_!\n\n\"That is a good word, and a good thing,\" he said to himself; \"and\nbecause I am the Servant of Mary, and the Brother of Jesu the Son, I\nwill take peace to the _Cruitne_, who know nothing of that blessing of\nthe blessings.\"\n\nWhen he unfolded his mantle, he saw that the coracle was already far\nfrom Iona. The south wind blew, and the tides swept northward, and the\nboat moved swiftly across the water. The sea was ashine with froth and\nsmall waves leaping like lambs.\n\nIn the boat were Thorkeld, a helot of Iona, and two dark wild-eyed men\nof the north. They were Picts, but could speak the tongue of the Gael.\nMyrdu, the Pictish king of Skye, had sent them to Iona, to bring back\nfrom Colum a culdee who could show wonders.\n\n\"And tell the chief Druid of the Godmen,\" Myrdu had said, \"that if his\nculdee does not show me good wonders, and so make me believe in his two\ngods and the woman, I will put an ash-shaft through his body from the\nhips and out at his mouth, and send him back on the north tide to the\nIsle of the White-Robes.\" The sun was already among the outer isles when\nthe coracle passed near the Isle of Columns. A great noise was in the\nair: the noise of the waves in the caverns, and the noise of the tide,\nlike sea-wolves growling, and like bulls bellowing in a narrow pass of\nthe hills.\n\nA sudden current caught the boat, and it began to drift towards great\nreefs white with ceaseless torn streams.\n\nThorkeld leaned from the helm, and shouted to the two Picts. They did\nnot stir, but sat staring, idle with fear.\n\nArtan knew now that it was as Colum had said. God would give him glory\nsoon.\n\nSo he took the little clarsach he had for hymns, for he was the best\nharper on Iona, and struck the strings, and sang. But the Latin words\ntangled in his throat, and he knew too that the men in the boat would\nnot understand what he sang; also that the older gods still came far\nsouth, and in the caves of the Isle of Columns were demons. There was\nonly one tongue common to all; and since God has wisdom beyond that of\nColum himself, He would know the song in Gaelic as well as though sung\nin Latin.\n\nSo Artan let the wind take his broken hymn, and he made a song of his\nown, and sang:\n\n    O Heavenly Mary, Queen of the Elements,\n    And you, Brigit the fair with the little harp,\n    And all the saints, and all the old gods\n    (And it is not one of them I'd be disowning),\n    Speak to the Father, that he may save us from drowning.\n\nThen seeing that the boat drifted closer, he sang again:\n\n    Save us from the rocks and the sea, Queen of Heaven!\n    And remember that I am a Culdee of Iona,\n    And that Colum has sent me to the _Cruitne_\n    To sing them the song of peace lest they be damned for ever!\n\nThorkeld laughed at that.\n\n\"Can the woman put swimming upon you?\" he said roughly. \"I would rather\nhave the good fin of a great fish now than any woman in the skies.\"\n\n\"You will burn in hell for that,\" said Artan, the holy zeal warm at his\nheart.\n\nBut Thorkeld answered nothing. His hand was on the helm, his eyes on the\nfoaming rocks. Besides, what had he to do with the culdee's hell or\nheaven? When he died, he, who was a man of Lochlann, would go to his own\nplace.\n\nOne of the dark men stood, holding the mast. His eyes shone. Thick words\nswung from his lips like seaweed thrown out of a hollow by an ebbing\nwave.\n\nThe coracle swerved, and the four men were wet with the heavy spray.\n\nThorkeld put his oar in the water, and the swaying craft righted.\n\n\"Glory to God,\" said Artan.\n\n\"There is no glory to your god in this,\" said Thorkeld scornfully. \"Did\nyou not hear what Necta sang? He sang to the woman in there that drags\nmen into the caves, and throws their bones on the next tide. He put an\nincantation upon her, and she shrank, and the boat slid away from the\nrocks.\"\n\n\"That is a true thing,\" thought Artan. He wondered if it was because he\nhad not sung his hymn in the holy Latin.\n\nWhen the last flame died out of the west, and the stars came like sheep\ngathering at the call of the shepherd, Artan remembered that he had not\nsaid his prayers and sang the vesper hymn.\n\nHe lay back and listened. There were no bells calling across the water.\nHe looked into the depths. It was Manann's kingdom, and he had never\nheard that God was there; but he looked. Then he stared into the\ndark-blue star-strewn sky.\n\nSuddenly he touched Thorkeld.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said, \"how far north has the Cross of Christ come?\"\n\n\"By the sea way it has not come here yet. Murdoch the Freckled came with\nit this way, but he was pulled into the sea, and he died.\"\n\n\"Who pulled him into the sea?\"\n\nThorkeld stared into the running wave. He had no words.\n\nArtan lay still for a long while.\n\n\"It will go ill with me,\" he thought, \"if Mary cannot see me so far away\nfrom Iona, and if God will not listen to me. Colum should have known\nthat, and given me a holy leaf with the fair branching letters on it,\nand the Latin words that are the words of God.\"\n\nThen he spoke to the man who had sung.\n\n\"Do you know of Mary, and God, and the Son, and the Spirit?\"\n\n\"You have too many Gods, Culdee,\" answered the Pict sullenly: \"for of\nthese one is your god's son, and the other is the woman his mother, and\nthe third is the ghost of an ancestor.\"\n\nArtan frowned.\n\n\"The curse of the God of Peace upon you for that,\" he said angrily; \"do\nyou know that you have hell for your dwelling-place if you speak evil of\nGod the Father, and the Son, and the Mother of God?\"\n\n\"How long have they been in Iona, White-Robe?\"\n\nThe man spoke scornfully. Artan knew they had not been there many years.\nHe had no words.\n\n\"My father worshipped the Sun on the Holy Isle before ever your great\nDruid that is called Colum crossed the Moyle. Were your three gods in\nthe coracle with Colum? They were not on the Holy Isle when he came.\"\n\n\"They were coming there,\" answered Artan confusedly. \"It is a long, long\nway from--from--from the place they were sailing from.\"\n\nNecta listened sullenly.\n\n\"Let them stay on Iona,\" he said: \"gods though they be, it would fare\nill with them if they came upon the Woman with the Net.\" Then he turned\non his side, and lay by the man Darach, who was staring at the moon and\nmuttering words that neither Artan nor Thorkeld knew.\n\nA white calm fell. The boat lay like a leaf on a silent pool. There was\nnothing between that dim wilderness and the vast sweeping blackness\nfilled with quivering stars, but the coracle, that a wave could crush.\n\n\nAt times, I doubt not, there must have been weaker brethren among these\nsimple and devoted Culdees of Iona, though in Colum's own day there was\nprobably none (unless it were Oran) who was not the visible outward\nshrine of a pure flame.\n\nThinking of such an one, and not without furtive pagan sympathy, I wrote\nthe other day these lines, which I may also add here as a further\nside-light upon that half-Pagan, half-Christian basis upon which the\nColumban Church of Iona stood.\n\n    Balva the old monk I am called: when I was young, Balva Honeymouth.\n    That was before Colum the White came to Iona in the West.\n    She whom I loved was a woman whom I won out of the South.\n    And I had a good heaven with my lips on hers and with breast to\n      breast.\n\n    Balva the old monk I am called: were it not for the fear\n    That the soul of Colum the White would meet my soul in the Narrows\n    That sever the living and dead, I would rise up from here,\n    And go back to where men pray with spears and arrows.\n\n    Balva the old monk I am called: ugh! ugh! the cold bell of the\n      matins--'tis dawn!\n    Sure it's a dream I have had that I was in a warm wood with the sun\n      ashine,\n    And that against me in the pleasant greenness was a soft fawn,\n    And a voice that whispered \"Balva Honeymouth, drink, I am thy wine!\"\n\nAs I write,[7] here on the hill-slope of Dun-I, the sound of the furtive\nwave is as the sighing in a shell. I am alone between sea and sky, for\nthere is no other on this bouldered height, nothing visible but a single\nblue shadow that slowly sails the hillside. The bleating of lambs and\newes, the lowing of kine, these come up from the Machar that lies\nbetween the west slopes and the shoreless sea to the west; these ascend\nas the very smoke of sound. All round the island there is a continuous\nbreathing; deeper and more prolonged on the west, where the open sea\nis; but audible everywhere. The seals on Soa are even now putting their\nbreasts against the running tide; for I see a flashing of fins here and\nthere in patches at the north end of the Sound, and already from the\nruddy granite shores of the Ross there is a congregation of\nseafowl--gannets and guillemots, skuas and herring-gulls, the\nlong-necked northern diver, the tern, the cormorant. In the sunblaze,\nthe waters of the Sound dance their blue bodies and swirl their flashing\nwhite hair o' foam; and, as I look, they seem to me like children of the\nwind and the sunshine, leaping and running in these flowing pastures,\nwith a laughter as sweet against the ears as the voices of children at\nplay.\n\nThe joy of life vibrates everywhere. Yet the Weaver does not sleep, but\nonly dreams. He loves the sun-drowned shadows. They are invisible thus,\nbut they are there, in the sunlight itself. Sure, they may be heard: as,\nan hour ago, when on my way hither by the Stairway of the Kings--for so\nsometimes they call here the ancient stones of the mouldered princes of\nlong ago--I heard a mother moaning because of the son that had had to go\nover-sea and leave her in her old age; and heard also a child sobbing,\nbecause of the sorrow of childhood--that sorrow so unfathomable, so\nincommunicable. And yet not a stone's-throw from where I lie, half\nhidden beneath an overhanging rock, is the Pool of Healing. To this\nsmall, black-brown tarn, pilgrims of every generation, for hundreds of\nyears, have come. Solitary, these; not only because the pilgrim to the\nFount of Eternal Youth must fare hither alone, and at dawn, so as to\ntouch the healing water the moment the first sunray quickens it--but\nsolitary, also, because those who go in quest of this Fount of Youth are\nthe dreamers and the Children of Dream, and these are not many, and few\ncome now to this lonely place. Yet, an Isle of Dream Iona is, indeed.\nHere the last sun-worshippers bowed before the Rising of God; here\nColumba and his hymning priests laboured and brooded; and here Oran or\nhis kin dreamed beneath the monkish cowl that pagan dream of his. Here,\ntoo, the eyes of Fionn and Oisin, and of many another of the heroic men\nand women of the Fianna, may have lingered; here the Pict and the Celt\nbowed beneath the yoke of the Norse pirate, who, too, left his dreams,\nor rather his strangely beautiful soul-rainbows, as a heritage to the\nstricken; here, for century after century, the Gael has lived, suffered,\njoyed, dreamed his impossible, beautiful dream; as here, now, he still\nlives, still suffers patiently, still dreams, and through all and over\nall, broods upon the incalculable mysteries. He is an elemental, among\nthe elemental forces. He knows the voices of wind and sea: and it is\nbecause the Fount of Youth upon Dun-I of Iona is not the only wellspring\nof peace, that the Gael can front destiny as he does, and can endure.\nWho knows where its tributaries are? They may be in your heart, or in\nmine, and in a myriad others.\n\nI would that the birds of Angus Og might, for once, be changed, not, as\nfabled, into the kisses of love, but into doves of peace, that they\nmight fly into the green world, and nest there in many hearts, in many\nminds, crooning their incommunicable song of joy and hope.\n\n\nA doomed and passing race. I have been taken to task for these words.\nBut they are true, in the deep reality where they obtain. Yes, but true\nonly in one sense, however vital that is. The Breton's eyes are slowly\nturning from the enchanted West, and slowly his ears are forgetting the\nwhisper of the wind around menhir and dolmen. The Manxman has ever been\nthe mere yeoman of the Celtic chivalry; but even his rude dialect\nperishes year by year. In Wales, a great tradition survives; in Ireland,\na supreme tradition fades through sunset-hued horizons; in Celtic\nScotland, a passionate regret, a despairing love and longing, narrows\nyearly before a dull and incredibly selfish alienism. The Celt has at\nlast reached his horizon. There is no shore beyond. He knows it. This\nhas been the burden of his song since Malvina led the blind Oisin to his\ngrave by the sea: \"Even the Children of Light must go down into\ndarkness.\" But this apparition of a passing race is no more than the\nfulfilment of a glorious resurrection before our very eyes. For the\ngenius of the Celtic race stands out now with averted torch, and the\nlight of it is a glory before the eyes, and the flame of it is blown\ninto the hearts of the stronger people. The Celt fades, but his spirit\nrises in the heart and the mind of the Anglo-Celtic peoples, with whom\nare the destinies of generations to come.\n\nI stop, and look seaward from this hillslope of Dun-I. Yes, even in this\nIsle of Joy, as it seems in this dazzle of golden light and splashing\nwave, there is the like mortal gloom and immortal mystery which moved\nthe minds of the old seers and bards. Yonder, where that thin spray\nquivers against the thyme-set cliff, is the Spouting Cave, where to this\nday the Mar-Tarbh, dread creature of the sea, swims at the full of the\ntide. Beyond, out of sight behind these craggy steeps, is\nPort-na-Churaich, where, a thousand years ago, Columba landed in his\ncoracle. Here, eastward, is the landing-place, for the dead of old,\nbrought hence out of Christendom for sacred burial in the Isle of the\nSaints. All the story of the Gael is here. Iona is the microcosm of the\nGaelic world.\n\nLast night, about the hour of the sun's going, I lay upon the heights\nnear the Cave, overlooking the Machar--the sandy, rock-frontiered plain\nof duneland on the west side of Iona, exposed to the Atlantic. There was\nneither bird nor beast, no living thing to see, save one solitary human\ncreature. The man toiled at kelp-burning. I watched the smoke till it\nmerged into the sea-mist that came creeping swiftly out of the north,\nand down from Dun-I eastward. At last nothing was visible. The mist\nshrouded everything. I could hear the dull, rhythmic beat of the waves.\nThat was all. No sound, nothing visible.\n\nIt was, or seemed, a long while before a rapid thud-thud trampled the\nheavy air. Then I heard the rush, the stamping and neighing, of some\nyoung mares, pasturing there, as they raced to and fro, bewildered or\nperchance in play. A glimpse I caught of three, with flying manes and\ntails; the others were blurred shadows only. A swirl, and the mist\ndisclosed them; a swirl, and the mist enfolded them again. Then, silence\nonce more.\n\nAbruptly, though not for a long time thereafter, the mist rose and\ndrifted seaward.\n\nAll was as before. The kelp-burner still stood, straking the smouldering\nseaweed. Above him a column ascended, bluely spiral, dusked with shadow.\n\n\nThe kelp-burner: who was he but the Gael of the Isles? Who but the Gael\nin his old-world sorrow? The mist falls and the mist rises. He is there\nall the same, behind it, part of it; and the column of smoke is the\nincense out of his longing heart that desires Heaven and Earth, and is\ndowered only with poverty and pain, hunger and weariness, a little isle\nof the seas, a great hope, and the love of love.\n\n\nBut ... to the island-story once more!\n\nSome day, surely, the historian of Iona will appear.\n\nHow many \"history-books\" there are like dead leaves. The simile is a\ntravesty. There is no little russet leaf of the forest that could not\ncarry more real, more intimate knowledge. There is no leaf that could\nnot reveal mystery of form, mystery of colour, wonder of structure,\nsecret of growth, the law of harmony; that could not testify to birth,\nand change, and decay, and death; and what history tells us more?--that\ncould not, to the inward ear, bring the sound of the south wind making a\ngreenness in the woods of Spring, the west wind calling his brown and\nred flocks to the fold.\n\nWhat a book it will be! It will reveal to us the secret of what Oisin\nsang, what Merlin knew, what Columba dreamed, what Adamnan hoped: what\nthis little \"lamp of Christ\" was to pagan Europe; what incense of\ntestimony it flung upon the winds; what saints and heroes went out of\nit; how the dust of kings and princes were brought there to mingle with\nits sands; how the noble and the ignoble came to it across long seas and\nperilous countries. It will tell, too, how the Danes ravaged the isles\nof the west, and left not only their seed for the strengthening of an\nolder race, but imageries and words, words and imageries so alive to-day\nthat the listener in the mind may hear the cries of the viking above\nthe voice of the Gael and the more ancient tongue of the Pict. It will\ntell, too, how the nettle came to shed her snow above kings' heads, and\nthe thistle to wave where bishops' mitres stood; how a simple people out\nof the hills and moors, remembering ancient wisdom or blindly cherishing\nforgotten symbols, sought here the fount of youth; and how, slowly, a\nlong sleep fell upon the island, and only the grasses shaken in the\nwind, and the wind itself, and the broken shadows of dreams in the minds\nof the old, held the secret of Iona. And, at the last--with what lift,\nwith what joy--it will tell how once more the doves of hope and peace\nhave passed over its white sands, this little holy land! This little\nholy land! Ah, white doves, come again! A thousand thousand wait.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[2] A more polished later version, though attributed to Columba, runs:--\n\n    \"An I mo chridhe, I mo ghraidh\n    An aite guth mhanach bidh geum ba;\n    Ach mu'n tig an saoghal gu crich,\n    Bithidh I mar a bha.\"\n\n(In effect: _In Iona that is my heart's desire, Iona that is my love,\nthe lowing of cows shall yet replace the voices of monks: but before the\nend is come Iona shall again be as it was._)\n\n[3] In a beautiful old Scoto-Gaelic ballad, the \"Bas Fhraoich,\" occurs\nthe line, _Thuit i air an traigh na neul_, \"she fell on the shore as a\nmist,\" though here finely used for a swoon only.\n\n[4] An allusion to the Hebridean proverb, _Ma dh' itheas tu cridh an\neoin, bidh do chridhe air chrith ri d' bheo_ (\"If you eat the bird's\nheart, your heart will palpitate for ever.\")\n\n[5] The Irish pipes are called \"Piob-theannaich\" to distinguish them\nfrom the \"Piob\" or \"Piob-Mhor\" of the Highlands.\n\n[6] _The Dominion of Dreams_, 1st Ed.\n\n[7] See Notes, p. 429.\n\n\n\n\nBY SUNDOWN SHORES\n\n\n    \"_Cette ame qui se lamente\n    En cette plaine dormante\n      C'est la notre n'est-ce pas?\n    La mienne, dis, et la tienne,\n    Dont s'exhale l'humble antienne\n      Par ce tiede soir, tout, bas?_\"\n\n\n\n\nBy Sundown Shores\n\n\n    \"_'N hano ann Tad, ar Mab hac ar Spered-Zantel,\n    Homan' zo'r ganaouenn zavet en Breiz-Izel!\n    Zavet gant eur paour-kez, en Ar-goat, en Ar-vor,\n    Kanet anez-hi, pewienn, hac ho pezo digor._\"\n\n    \"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit\n    This song of mine was raised in my Breton Fatherland,\n    In Argoat forest-clad, in Arvor of the grey wave:\n    Sing it, wayfarers, and all gates will open before you.\"\n\nI do not know the name of the obscure minstrel who sang this song, as he\npassed from village to village, by the coasts, along the heath-lands of\nBrittany. But there are poets who have no name and no country, because\nthey are named by the secret name of the longing of many minds, and\nmysteriously come from and pass to the Land of Heart's Desire, which is\ntheir own land. This wandering Breton minstrel is of that company. His\nsone is familiar. I have heard it where Connemara breaks in grey rock\nand sudden pastures to the sea: where only the wind and the heather\npeople the solitudes of Argyll: where the silent Isles shelve to\nperpetual foam. He speaks for all his brotherhood of Armorica: he speaks\nalso for the greater brotherhood of his race, the broken peoples who now\nstand upon the sundown shores, from wild Ushant to the cliffs of Achil,\nfrom St. Bride's Bay to solitary St. Kilda. He is not only the genius of\nArvor, daughter of dreams, but the genius of a race whose farewell is in\na tragic lighting of torches of beauty around its grave. For it is the\nsoul of the Celt who wanders homeless to-day, with his pathetic burthen\nthat his _sone_ was made by ancestral woods, by the unchanging sea;\ndreaming the enchanted air will open all doors. Alas! few doors open:\nthe wayfarer must not tarry. Memories and echoes he may leave, but he\nmust turn his face. Grey dolmen and grey menhir already stand there, by\nthe last shores, memorials of his destiny.\n\nThe ancient Gaels believed that in the western ocean there was an island\ncalled Hy Brasil, where all that was beautiful and mysterious lived\nbeyond the pillars of the rainbow. The legendary romances of the Celtic\nraces may be described as the Hy Brasil of literature.\n\nIn the Celtic commune there are many legendary tales which, but for the\naccident of names and local circumstances, are identical. The familiar\nHighland legend of the children who, bathing in a mountain loch, were\ncarried off by a water-horse, has its counterpart in Connemara, in\nMerioneth, and in Finistere, though in the Welsh recital the children\nare the victims of a dragon, and in the Breton legend the monster is a\nboar. For that matter, this elemental tale has its roots in the east,\nand Macedonia and the Himalaya retain the memory of what Aryan wagoners\ntold by the camp-fires during their centuries-long immigration into\nEurope. Whether, however, a tale be universal or strictly Celtic,\ngenerally it has a parallel in one or all of the racial dialects. True,\nthere are legendary cycles which are local. The Arzur of Brittany is a\nmere echo in the Hebrides, and the name of Cuculain or the fame of the\nRed Branch has not reached the dunes of Armorica. Nevertheless, even in\nthe mythopoeic tales there is a kindred character. Nomenoe may have been\na Breton Fionn, though he had no Oisin to wed his deeds to a deathless\nmusic; and Diarmid and Grainne have loved beneath the oaks of\nBroceliande or the beech-groves of Llanidris, as well as among the hills\nof Erin, or in the rocky fastnesses of Morven. It is characteristic,\ntoo, how Celtland has given to Celtland. Scotland gave Ireland St.\nPatrick; Ireland gave Scotland St. Columba; the chief bard of Armorica\ncame from Wales; and Cornwall has the Arthurian fame which is the meed\nof Kymric Caledonia. To this day no man can say whether Oisin, old and\nblind, wandered at the last to Drumadoon in Arran, or if indeed he\nfollowed out of Erin the sweet voice from Tirnan-Og, and was seen or\nheard of by none, till three centuries later the bells of the clerics\nand the admonitions of Patrick made his days a burden not to be borne.\nDid not the greatest of Irish kings die in tributary lands by the banks\nof the Loire, and who has seen the moss of that lost grave in\nBroceliande where Merlin of the North lay down to a long sleep?\n\nEven where there seems no probability of a common origin, there is often\na striking similarity in the matter and the manner of folk-tales,\nparticularly those which narrate the strange experiences of the saints.\nThus, for example, in one of the most beautiful of the legendary stories\ngiven in _The Shadow of Arvor_[8] there is an account of how Gradlon,\n\"the honoured chief of Kerne, the monarch who built Ys, and on whose\nbrow were united the crowns of Armorica,\" having voluntarily become a\nwandering beggar, arrived at last in the heart of an ancient forest:\n\"towering moss-clad pillars bearing a heavy roof of foliage, full of the\nmystery of a cathedral aisle by night.\" Here the king vowed to build a\ngreat temple, but before he could fulfil his vow he died. Gwennole the\nmonk had missed Gradlon, and had followed him to the forest, to find him\nthere on the morrow, lying on a bed of moss which the fallen leaves had\nflecked with gold. Near him crouched a human figure. This was Primel the\nanchorite. Note how the king speaks to the Christian monk Gwennole\nconcerning this ancient hermit. \"Have mercy on this poor old man beside\nme: the length of three men's lives has been his, and he has known the\ndeeps of sorrow. The sorrows which have come upon me are nothing to his;\nfor while I have wept over the fate of my royal city, and while for Ahez\nmy heart has been broken, this man has lost his gods. There is no sorrow\nthat is so great a sorrow. He is a Druid lamenting a dead faith. Show\nhim tenderness.\" Therewith Gradlon dies. Over the dead king \"Gwennole\nmurmured a Latin chant; the druid in a tremulous voice intoned a\nrefrain in an unknown tongue; and Gradlon, ruler of the sea, slept in\nthat glade watched over by the priest of Christ and by the last\nsurviving servant of Teutates.... There, amid the majestic solitudes of\nthe forest, the two religions of the ancient race joined hands and were\nat one before the mystery of death.\" Later, the druid bids Gwennole\nbuild a Christian sanctuary on the spot where \"the belated ministrant of\na fallen faith\" died beside Gradlon Maur, the Great King. One strange\ntouch of bitterness occurs. \"But,\" exclaims Gwennole, \"if the sanctuary\nbe reared here, we shall invade thy last refuge.\" \"As for me ...!\"\nreplies the old man; then, after a silence he adds, with a gesture of\ninfinite weariness, \"it is my gods who should protect me. Let them save\nme if they can.\" The dying druid turns away to seek his long rest under\nthe sacred oaks: \"Gwennole, his heart full of a tender love and pity\nwhich he could not understand, moved slowly towards the sea.\" A fitting\nclose to a book full of interest, charm, and spiritual beauty.\n\nIn the third book of St. Adamnan's _Life of St. Columba_, there is an\nepisode entitled \"Of a manifestation of angels meeting the soul of one\nEmchath.\" Columba, \"making his way beyond the Ridge of Britain\n(Drum-Alban), near the lake of the river Nisa (Loch Ness), being\nsuddenly inspired by the Holy Spirit, says to the brethren who are\njourneying with him at that time: 'Let us make haste to meet the holy\nangels who, that they may carry away the soul of a certain heathen man,\nwho is keeping the moral law of nature even to extreme old age, have\nbeen sent out from the highest regions of heaven, and are waiting until\nwe come thither, that we may baptize him in time before he dies.'\nThereafter the aged saint made as much haste as he could to go in\nadvance of his companions, until he came to the district which is named\nAirchartdan (Glen Urquhart).\" There he found \"the holy heathen man,\"\nEmchath by name.\n\nHere, then, is an instance of a Celtic priest in Armorica and of a\nCeltic priest in Scotland acting identically towards an upright heathen.\nA large book would be necessary to relate the correspondence between the\nfolk-tales, the traditional romances, and the Christian legends of the\nfour great branches of the Celtic race.\n\nOn the seventh day, when God rested, says a poet of the Gael, He dreamed\nof the lands and nations he had made, and out of that dreaming were\nborn Ireland and Brittany. Truly, within Christian days, there were more\nsaints, there were more lamps of the spirit lit in that grey peninsula,\nin that green land, in the little sand-cinctured isle Iona, than\nanywhere betwixt the Syrian deserts and the meads of Glastonbury. It\ntakes nothing from, it adds much to these lands where spiritual ecstasy\nhas longest dreamed, that the old gods have not perished but merge into\nthe brotherhood of Christ's company; that the old faiths, and the\nancient spirit, and the pagan soul were not given to the wave for foam,\nto the pastures for idle sand. Ireland and Brittany! Behind the\nsorrowful songs of longing and regret, behind the faint chime of bells\nwhich some day linger as an echo in the towers of Ys where she lies\nunder the wave, are the cries of the tympan and the forgotten music of\ndruidic harps. What song the oaks knew in Broceliande, what song\nTaliesin heard, what chant Merlin the Wild raised among dim woods in\nCaledon: these may be lost to us for ever, or live only through our\nsongs and dreams as shadows live in the hollows of the sunrain: but\nBroceliande and Gethsemane are in symbol akin, Taliesin is but another\nname of him who ate the wild honey and listened to the wind, and\nMerlin, with the nuts of wisdom in his hand, stands hearkening to the\nsame deep murmur of the eternal life which was heard upon the Mount of\nOlives.\n\nIt has occurred to me often of late, from what I have seen, and read,\nand heard from others, that the Celtic mythopoeic faculty is still\nconcerning itself largely with an interweaving of Pagan and Christian\nthought, of Pagan and Christian symbol, of the old Pagan tales of a day\nand of mortal beauty with the Christian symbolic legends that are of no\nday and are of immortal beauty.\n\nA fisherman told me the story of Diarmid and Grainne, in the guise of a\nlegend of the Virgin Mary and her Gaelic husband. Three years ago, in\nAppin, an old woman, Jessie Stewart, told me that when Christ was\ncrucified He came back to us as Oisin of the Songs. From a ferryman on\nLoch Linnhe, near the falls of Lora, a friend heard a confused story of\nOisin (confused because the narrator at one moment spoke of Oisin, and\nat another of \"Goll\"), how on the day that Christ was crucified Oisin\nslew his own son, and knew madness, crying that he was but a shadow, and\nhis son a shadow, and that what he had done was but the shadow of what\nwas being done in that hour \"to the black sorrow of time and the\nuniverse (_domhain_).\" In this connection, Celtic students will recall\nthe story of Concobar mac Nessa, the High King of Ulster: how on that\nday he rose suddenly and fled into the woods and hewed down the branches\nof trees, crying that he slew the multitudes of those who at that moment\nwere doing to death the innocent son of a king.\n\nOut of this confusion may arise a new interpretation of certain great\nsymbolic persons and incidents in the old mythology. As this legendary\nlore is being swiftly forgotten, it is well that it should be saved to\nnew meanings and new beauty, by that mythopoeic faculty which, in the\nCeltic imagination, is as a wing continually uplifting fallen dreams to\nthe imaging wind of the Spirit.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[8] _Vide_ Notes, p. 431.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIND, SILENCE, AND LOVE\n\n\nI know one who, asked by a friend desiring more intimate knowledge as to\nwhat influences above all other influences had shaped her inward life,\nanswered at once, with that sudden vision of insight which reveals more\nthan the vision of thought, \"The Wind, Silence, and Love.\"\n\nThe answer was characteristic, for, with her who made it, the influences\nthat shape have always seemed more significant than the things that are\nshapen. None can know for another the mysteries of spiritual\ncompanionship. What is an abstraction to one is a reality to another:\nwhat to one has the proved familiar face, to another is illusion.\n\nI can well understand the one of whom I write. With most of us the\nshaping influences are the common sweet influences of motherhood and\nfatherhood, the airs of home, the place and manner of childhood. But\nthese are not for all, and may be adverse, and in some degree absent.\nEven when a child is fortunate in love and home, it may be spiritually\nalien from these: it may dimly discern love rather as a mystery dwelling\nin sunlight and moonlight, or in the light that lies on quiet meadows,\nwoods, quiet shores: may find a more intimate sound of home in the wind\nwhispering in the grass, or when a sighing travels through the\nwilderness of leaves, or when an unseen wave moans in the pine.\n\nWhen we consider, could any influences be deeper than these three\nelemental powers, for ever young, yet older than age, beautiful\nimmortalities that whisper continually against our mortal ear. The Wind,\nSilence, and Love: yes, I think of them as good comrades, nobly\nministrant, priests of the hidden way.\n\nTo go into solitary places, or among trees which await dusk and storm,\nor by a dark shore; to be a nerve there, to listen to, inwardly to hear,\nto be at one with, to be as grass filled with, as reeds shaken by, as a\nwave lifted before, the wind: this is to know what cannot otherwise be\nknown; to hear the intimate, dread voice; to listen to what long, long\nago went away, and to what now is going and coming, coming and going,\nand to what august airs of sorrow and beauty prevail in that dim empire\nof shadow where the falling leaf rests unfallen, where Sound, of all\nelse forgotten and forgetting, lives in the pale hyacinth, the\nmoon-white pansy, the cloudy amaranth that gathers dew.\n\nAnd, in the wood; by the grey stone on the hill; where the heron waits;\nwhere the plover wails: on the pillow; in the room filled with\nflame-warmed twilight; is there any comrade that is as Silence is? Can\nshe not whisper the white secrecies which words discolour? Can she not\nsay, when we would forget, forget; when we would remember, remember? Is\nit not she also who says, Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy\nladen, and I will give you rest? Is it not she who has a lute into which\nall loveliness of sound has passed, so that when she breathes upon it\nlife is audible? Is it not she who will close many doors, and shut away\ncries and tumults, and will lead you to a green garden and a fountain in\nit, and say, \"This is your heart, and that is your soul; listen.\"\n\nThat third one, is he a Spirit, alone, uncompanioned? I think sometimes\nthat these three are one, and that Silence is his inward voice and the\nWind the sound of his unwearying feet. Does he not come in wind, whether\nhis footfall be on the wild rose, or on the bitter wave, or in the\ntempest shaken with noises and rains that are cries and tears, sighs\nand prayers and tears?\n\nHe has many ways, many hopes, many faces. He bends above those who meet\nin twilight, above the cradle, above dwellers by the hearth, above the\nsorrowful, above the joyous children of the sun, above the grave. Must\nhe not be divine, who is worshipped of all men? Does not the wild-dove\ntake the rainbow upon its breast because of him, and the salmon leave\nthe sea for inland pools, and the creeping thing become winged and\nradiant?\n\nThe Wind, Silence, and Love: if one cannot learn of these, is there any\ncomradeship that can tell us more, that can more comfort us, that can so\ninhabit with living light what is waste and barren?\n\nAnd, in the hidden hour, one will stoop, and kiss us on the brow, when\nour sudden stillness will, for others, already be memory. And another\nwill be as an open road, with morning breaking. And the third will meet\nus, with a light of joy in his eyes; but we shall not see him at first\nbecause of the sunblaze, or hear his words because in that summer air\nthe birds will be multitude.\n\nMeanwhile they are near and intimate. Their life uplifts us. We cannot\nforget wholly, nor cease to dream, nor be left unhoping, nor be without\nrest, nor go darkly without torches and songs, if these accompany us; or\nwe them, for they go one way.\n\n\n\n\nBARABAL\n\nA MEMORY\n\n\nI have spoken in \"Iona\" and elsewhere of the old Highland woman who was\nmy nurse. She was not really old, but to me seemed so, and I have always\nso thought of her. She was one of the most beautiful and benignant\nnatures I have known.\n\nI owe her a great debt. In a moment, now, I can see her again, with her\npale face and great dark eyes, stooping over my bed, singing \"Wae's me\nfor Prince Charlie,\" or an old Gaelic Lament, or that sad, forgotten,\nbeautiful and mournful air that was played at Fotheringay when the Queen\nof Scots was done to death, \"lest her cries should be heard.\" Or, later,\nI can hear her telling me old tales before the fire; or, later still,\nbefore the glowing peats in her little island-cottage, speaking of men\nand women, and strange legends, and stranger dreams and visions. To her,\nand to an old islander, Seumas Macleod, of whom I have elsewhere spoken\nin this volume, I owe more than to any other influences in my childhood.\nPerhaps it is from her that in part I have my great dislike of towns.\nThere is no smoke in the lark's house, to use one of her frequent\nsayings--one common throughout the west.\n\nI never knew any one whose speech, whose thought, was so coloured with\nthe old wisdom and old sayings and old poetry of her race. To me she\nstands for the Gaelic woman, strong, steadfast, true to \"her own,\" her\npeople, her clan, her love, herself. \"When you come to love,\" she said\nto me once, \"keep always to the one you love a mouth of silk and a heart\nof hemp.\"\n\nHer mind was a storehouse of proverbial lore. Had I been older and\nwiser, I might have learned less fugitively. I cannot attempt to reach\nadequately even the most characteristic of these proverbial sayings; it\nwould take overlong. Most of them, of course, would be familiar to our\nproverb-loving people. But, among others of which I have kept note, I\nhave not anywhere seen the following in print. \"You could always tell\nwhere his thoughts would be ... pointing one way like the hounds of\nFinn\" (_i.e._ the two stars of the north, the Pointers); \"It's a\ncomfort to know there's nothing missing, as the wren said when she\ncounted the stars\"; \"The dog's howl is the stag's laugh\"; and again, \"I\nwould rather cry with the plover than laugh with the dog\" (both meaning\nthat the imprisoned comfort of the towns is not to be compared with the\nlife of the hills, for all its wildness); \"True love is like a\nmountain-tarn; it may not be deep, but that's deep enough that can hold\nthe sun, moon, and stars\"; \"It isn't silence where the lark's song\nceases\"; \"St. Bride's Flower, St. Bride's Bird, and St. Bride's Gift\nmake a fine spring and a good year.\" (_Am Bearnan Bhrigde, 'us\nGille-Bhrigde, 'us Lunn-Bata Bhrigde, etc.--the dandelion, the\noyster-catcher, and the cradle_[9]--because the dandelion comes with the\nfirst south winds and in a sunny spring is seen everywhere, and because\nin a fine season the oyster-catcher's early breeding-note fortells\nprosperity with the nets, and because a birth in spring is good luck for\nchild and mother.) \"It's easier for most folk to say _Lus Bealtainn_\nthan _La' Bealtainn_\": i.e. people can see the small things that\nconcern themselves better than the great things that concern the world;\nliterally, \"It's easier to say marigold than may-day\"--in Gaelic, a\nclose play upon words; \"_Cuir do lamh leinn_,\" \"Lend us a hand,\" as the\nfox in the ditch said to the duckling on the roadside; \"_Gu'm a slan\ngu'n till thu_,\" \"May you return in health,\" as the young man said when\nhis conscience left him; \"It's only a hand's-turn from _eunadair_ to\n_eunadan_\" (from the bird-snarer to the cage); \"Saying _eud_ is next\ndoor to saying _eudail_,\" as the girl laughed back to her sweetheart\n(_eud_ is jealousy and _eudail_ my Treasure); \"The lark doesn't need\n_broggan_ (shoes) to climb the stairs of the sky.\"\n\nAmong those which will not be new to some readers, I have note of a\nrhyme about the stars of the four seasons, and a saying about the three\nkinds of love, and the four stars of destiny. Wind comes from the spring\nstar, runs the first; heat from the summer star, water from the autumn\nstar, and frost from the winter star. Barabal's variant was \"wind (air)\nfrom the spring star in the east; fire (heat) from the summer star in\nthe south; water from the autumn star in the west; wisdom, silence and\ndeath from the star in the north.\" Both this season-rhyme and that of\nthe three kinds of love are well known. The latter runs:--\n\n    _Gaol nam fear-diolain, mar shruth-lionaidh na mara;\n    Gaol nam fear-fuadain, mar ghaoith tuath 'thig o'n charraig;\n    Gaol nam fear-posda, mar luing a' seoladh gu cala._\n\n    _Lawless love is as the wild tides of the sea;\n    And the roamer's love cruel as the north wind blowing from barren\n      rocks;\n    But wedded love is like the ship coming safe home to haven._\n\nI have found these two and many others of Barabal's sayings and rhymes,\nexcept those I have first given, in collections of proverbs and\nfolklore, but do not remember having noted another, though doubtless\n\"The Four Stars of Destiny (or Fate)\" will be recalled by some. It ran\nsomewhat as follows:--\n\n    _Reul Near_ (Star of the East), Give us kindly birth;\n    _Reul Deas_ (Star of the South), Give us great love;\n    _Reul Niar_ (Star of the West), Give us quiet age;\n    _Reul Tuath_ (Star of the North), Give us Death.\n\nIt was from her I first heard of the familiar legend of the waiting of\nFionn and the Feinn (popularly now Fingal and the Fingalians),\n\"fo-gheasaibh,\" spellbound, till the day of their return to the living\nworld. In effect the several legends are the same. That which Barabal\ntold was as an isleswoman would more naturally tell it. A man so pure\nthat he could give a woman love and yet let angels fan the flame in his\nheart, and so innocent that his thoughts were white as a child's\nthoughts, and so brave that none could withstand him, climbed once to\nthe highest mountain in the Isles, where there is a great cave that no\none has ever entered. A huge white hound slept at the entrance to the\ncave. He stepped over it, and it did not wake. He entered, and passed\nfour tall demons, with bowed heads and folded arms, one with great wings\nof red, another with wings of white, another with wings of green, and\nanother with wings of black. They did not uplift their dreadful eyes.\nThen he saw Fionn and the Feinn sitting in a circle.\n\nTheir long hair trailed on the ground; their eyebrows fell to their\nbeards; their beards lay upon their feet, so that nothing of their\nbodies was seen but hands like scarped rocks that clasped gigantic\nswords. Behind them hung an elk-horn with a mouth of gold. He blew this\nhorn, but nothing happened, except that the huge white hound came in,\nand went to the hollow place round which the Feinn sat, and in silence\nate greedily of treasures of precious stones. He blew the horn again,\nand Fionn and all the Feinn opened their great, cold, grey, lifeless\neyes, and stared upon him; and for him it was as though he stood at a\ngrave and the dead man in the grave put up strong hands and held his\nfeet, and as though his soul saw Fear.\n\nBut with a mighty effort he blew the horn a third time. The Feinn leaned\non their elbows, and Fionn said, \"Is the end come?\" But the man could\nwait no more, and turned and fled, leaving that ancient mighty company\nleaning upon its elbow, spellbound thus, waiting for the end. So they\nshall be found. The four demons fled into the air, and tumultuous winds\nswung him from that place. He heard the baying of the white hound, and\nthe mountain vanished. He was found lying dead in a pasture in the\nlittle island that was his home. I recall this here because the legend\nwas plainly in Barabal's mind when her last ill came upon her. In her\ndelirium she cried suddenly, \"The Feinn! The Feinn! they are coming down\nthe hill!\"\n\n\"I hear the bells of the ewes,\" she said abruptly, just before the end:\nso by that we knew she was already upon far pastures, and heard the\nShepherd calling upon the sheep to come into the fold.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[9] It is probably in the isles only that the pretty word _Lunn-Bata_ is\nused for _cr[=a]-all (creathall)_, a cradle. It might best be rendered as\nboat-on-a-billow, _lunn_ being a heaving billow.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE HERON\n\n\nIt was in summer, when there is no night among these Northern Isles. The\nslow, hot days waned through a long after-glow of rose and violet; and\nwhen the stars came, it was only to reveal purple depths within depths.\n\nMary Macleod walked, barefoot, through the dewy grass, on the long\nwestern slope of Innisron, looking idly at the phantom flake of the moon\nas it hung like a blown moth above the rose-flush of the West. Below it,\nbeyond her, the ocean. It was pale, opalescent; here shimmering with the\nhues of the moonbow; here dusked with violet shadow, but, for the most\npart, pale, opalescent. No wind moved, but a breath arose from the\nmomentary lips of the sea. The cool sigh floated inland, and made a\ncontinual faint tremor amid the salt grasses. The skuas and guillemots\nstirred, and at long intervals screamed.\n\nThe girl stopped, staring seaward. The illimitable, pale, unlifted wave;\nthe hinted dusk of the quiet underwaters; the unfathomable violet gulfs\noverhead;--these silent comrades were not alien to her. Their kin, she\nwas but a moving shadow on an isle; to her, they were the veils of\nwonder beyond which the soul knows no death, but looks upon the face of\nBeauty, and upon the eyes of Love, and upon the heart of Peace.\n\nAmid these silent spaces two dark objects caught the girl's gaze. Flying\neastward, a solander trailed a dusky wing across the sky. So high its\nflight that the first glance saw it as though motionless; yet, even\nwhile Mary looked, the skyfarer waned suddenly, and that which had been\nwas not. The other object had wings too, but was not a bird. A\nfishing-smack lay idly becalmed, her red-brown sail now a patch of warm\ndusk. Mary knew what boat it was--the _Nighean Donn_, out of Fionnaphort\nin Ithona, the westernmost of the Iarraidh Isles.\n\nThere was no one visible on board the _Nighean Donn_, but a boy's voice\nsang a monotonous Gaelic cadence, indescribably sweet as it came, remote\nand wild as an air out of a dim forgotten world, across the still\nwaters. Mary Macleod knew the song, a strange _iorram_ or boat-song made\nby Pol the Freckled, and by him given to his friend Angus Macleod of\nIthona. She muttered the words over and over, as the lilt of the boyish\nvoice rose and fell--\n\n    It is not only when the sea is dark and chill and desolate\n      I hear the singing of the queen who lives beneath the ocean:\n    Oft have I heard her chanting voice when moon o'erfloods his golden\n        gate,\n      Or when the moonshine fills the wave with snow-white mazy motion.\n\n    And some day will it hap to me, when the black waves are leaping,\n      Or when within the breathless green I see her shell-strewn door,\n    That singing voice will lure me where my sea-drown'd love lies\n        sleeping\n      Beneath the slow white hands of her who rules the sunken shore.\n\n    For in my heart I hear the bells that ring their fatal beauty.\n      The wild, remote, uncertain bells that chant their lonely sorrow:\n    The lonely bells of sorrow, the bells of fatal beauty,\n      Oft in my heart I hear the bells, who soon shall know no morrow.\n\nThe slow splashing of oars in the great hollow cavern underneath her\nfeet sent a flush to her face. She knew who was there--that it was the\nlittle boat of the _Nighean Donn_, and that Angus Macleod was in it.\n\nShe stood among the seeding grasses, intent. The cluster of white\nmoon-daisies that reached to her knees was not more pale than her white\nface; for a white silence was upon Mary Macleod in her dreaming\ngirlhood, as in her later years.\n\nShe shivered once as she listened to Angus's echoing song, while he\nsecured his boat, and began to climb from ledge to ledge. He too had\nheard the lad Uille Ban singing as he lay upon a coil of rope, while the\nsmack lay idly on the unmoving waters; and hearing, had himself taken up\nthe song--\n\n    _For in my heart I hear the bells that ring their fatal beauty,\n      The wild, remote, uncertain bells that chant their lonely sorrow:\n    The lonely bells of sorrow, the bells of fatal beauty,\n      Oft in my heart I hear the bells, who soon shall know no morrow._\n\nMary shivered with the vague fear that had come upon her. Had she not\ndreamed, in the bygone night, that she heard some one in the sea singing\nthat very song--some one with slow, white hands which waved idly above a\ndead man? A moment ago she had listened to the same song sung by the lad\nUille Ban; and now, for the third time, she heard Angus idly chanting\nit as he rose invisibly from ledge to ledge of the great cavern below.\nThree idle songs yet she remembered that death was but the broken\nrefrain of an idle song.\n\nWhen Angus leaped onto the slope and came towards her, she felt her\npulse quicken. Tall and fair, he looked fairer and taller than she had\never seen him. The light that was still in the west lingered in his\nhair, which, yellow as it was, now glistened as with the sheen of\nbronze. He had left his cap in the boat; and as he crossed swiftly\ntowards her, she realized anew that he deserved the Gaelic name given\nhim by Pol the poet--Angus the yellow-haired son of Youth. They had\nnever spoken of their love, and now both realized in a flash that no\nwords were needed. At midsummer noon no one says the sun shines.\n\nAngus came forward with outreaching hands. \"Dear, dear love!\" he\nwhispered. \"Mhairi mo run, muirnean, mochree!\"\n\nShe put her hands in his; she put her lips to his; she put her head to\nhis breast, and listened, all her life throbbing in response to the\nleaping pulse of the heart that loved her.\n\n\"Dear, dear love!\" he whispered again.\n\n\"Angus!\" she murmured.\n\nThey said no more, but moved slowly onward, hand in hand.\n\nThe night had their secret. For sure, it was in the low sighing of the\ndeep when the tide put its whispering lips against the sleeping sea; it\nwas in the spellbound silences of the isle; it was in the phantasmal\nlight of the stars--the stars of dream, in a sky of dream, in a world of\ndream. When, an hour--or was it an eternity, or a minute?--later, they\nturned, she to her home near the clachan of Innisron, he to his boat, a\nlight air had come up on the forehead of the tide. The sail of the\n_Nighean Donn_ flapped, a dusky wing in the darkness. The penetrating\nsmell of sea-mist was in the air.\n\nMary had only one regret as she turned her face inland, when once the\ninvisibly gathering mist hid from her even the blurred semblance of the\nsmack--that she had not asked Angus to sing no more that song of Pol the\nFreckled, which vaguely she feared, and even hated. She had stood\nlistening to the splashing of the oars, and, later, to the voices of\nAngus and Uille Ban; and now, coming faintly and to her weirdly through\nthe gloom, she heard her lover's voice chanting the words again. What\nmade him sing that song, in that hour, on this day of all days?\n\n    For in my heart I hear the bells that ring their fatal beauty,\n      The wild, remote, uncertain bells that chant their lonely sorrow:\n    The lonely bells of sorrow, the bells of fatal beauty,\n      Oft in my heart I hear the bells, who soon shall know no morrow.\n\nBut long before she was back at the peat-fire again she forgot that sad,\nhaunting cadence, and remembered only his words--the dear words of him\nwhom she loved, as he came towards her, across the dewy grass, with\noutstretched hands--\n\n\"Dear, dear love!--Mhairi mo run, muirnean, mochree!\"\n\nShe saw them in the leaping shadows in the little room; in the red glow\nthat flickered along the fringes of the peats; in the darkness which,\nlike a sea, drowned the lonely croft. She heard them in the bubble of\nthe meal, as slowly with wooden spurtle she stirred the porridge; she\nheard them in the rising wind that had come in with the tide; she heard\nthem in the long resurge and multitudinous shingly inrush as the hands\nof the Atlantic tore at the beaches of Innisron.\n\nAfter the smooring of the peats, and when the two old people, the father\nof her father and his white-haired wife, were asleep, she sat for a\nlong time in the warm darkness. From a cranny in the peat ash a\nsmouldering flame looked out comfortingly. In the girl's heart a great\npeace was come as well as a great joy. She had dwelled so long with\nsilence that she knew its eloquent secrets; and it was sweet to sit\nthere in the dusk, and listen, and commune with silence, and dream.\n\nAbove the long, deliberate rush of the tidal waters round the piled\nbeaches she could hear a dull, rhythmic beat. It was the screw of some\ngreat steamer, churning its way through the darkness; a stranger,\nsurely, for she knew the times and seasons of every vessel that came\nnear these lonely isles. Sometimes it happened that the Uist or Tiree\nsteamers passed that way; doubtless it was the Tiree boat, or possibly\nthe big steamer that once or twice in the summer fared northward to\nfar-off St. Kilda.\n\nShe must have slept, and the sound have passed into her ears as an echo\ninto a shell; for when, with a start, she arose, she still heard the\nthud-thud of the screw, although the boat had long since passed away.\n\nIt was the cry of a sea-bird which had startled her. Once--twice--the\nscream had whirled about the house. Mary listened, intent. Once more it\ncame, and at the same moment she saw a drift of white press up against\nthe window.\n\nShe sprang to her feet, startled.\n\n\"It is the cry of a heron,\" she muttered, with dry lips; \"but who has\nheard tell of a white heron?--and the bird there is white as a\nsnow-wreath.\"\n\nSome uncontrollable impulse made her hesitate. She moved to go to the\nwindow, to see if the bird were wounded, but she could not. Sobbing with\ninexplicable fear, she turned and fled, and a moment later was in her\nown little room. There all her fear passed. Yet she could not sleep for\nlong. If only she could get the sound of that beating screw out of her\nears, she thought. But she could not, neither waking nor sleeping; nor\nthe following day; nor any day thereafter; and when she died, doubtless\nshe heard the thud-thud of a screw as it churned the dark waters in a\nnight of shrouding mist.\n\nFor on the morrow she learned that the _Nighean Donn_ had been run down\nin the mist, a mile south of Ithona, by an unknown steamer. The great\nvessel came out of the darkness, unheeding; unheeding she passed into\nthe darkness again. Perhaps the officer in command thought that his\nvessel had run into some floating wreckage; for there was no cry heard,\nand no lights had been seen. Later, only one body was found--that of the\nboy Uille Ban.\n\nWhen heartbreaking sorrow comes, there is no room for words. Mary\nMacleod said little; what, indeed, was there to say? The islanders gave\nwhat kindly comfort they could. The old minister, when next he came to\nInnisron, spoke of the will of God and the Life Eternal.\n\nMary bowed her head. What had been, was not: could any words, could any\nsolace, better that?\n\n\"You are young, Mary,\" said Mr. Macdonald, when he had prayed with her.\n\"God will not leave you desolate.\"\n\nShe turned upon him her white face, with her great, brooding, dusky\neyes:\n\n\"Will He give me back Angus?\" she said, in her low, still voice, that\nhad the hush in it of lonely places.\n\nHe could not tell her so.\n\n\"It was to be,\" she said, breaking the long silence that had fallen\nbetween them.\n\n\"Ay,\" the minister answered.\n\nShe looked at him, and then took his hand. \"I am thanking you, Mr.\nMacdonald, for the good words you have put upon my sorrow. But I am not\nwishing that any more be said to me. I must go now, for I have to see\nto the milking, an' I hear the poor beasts lowing on the hillside. The\nold folk too are weary, and I must be getting them their porridge.\"\n\nAfter that no one ever heard Mary Macleod speak of Angus. She was a good\nlass, all agreed, and made no moan; and there was no croft tidier than\nScaur-a-van, and because of her it was; and she made butter better than\nany on Innisron; and in the isles there was no cheese like the\nScaur-a-van cheese.\n\nHad there been any kith or kin of Angus, she would have made them hers.\nShe took the consumptive mother of Uille Ban from Ithona, and kept her\nsafe-havened at Scaur-a-van, till the woman sat up one night in her bed,\nand cried in a loud voice that Uille Ban was standing by her side and\nplaying a wild air on the strings of her heart, which he had in his\nhands, and the strings were breaking, she cried. They broke, and Mary\nenvied her, and the whispering joy she would be having with Uille Ban.\nBut Angus had no near kin. Perhaps, she thought, he would miss her the\nmore where he had gone. He had a friend, whom she had never seen. He was\na man of Iona, and was named Eachain MacEachain Maclean. He and Angus\nhad been boys in the same boat, and sailed thrice to Iceland together,\nand once to Peterhead, that maybe was as far or further, or perhaps upon\nthe coast-lands further east. Mary knew little geography, though she\ncould steer by the stars. To this friend she wrote, through the\nminister, to say that if ever he was in trouble he was to come to her.\n\nIt was on the third night after the sinking of the _Nighean Donn_ that\nMary walked alone, beyond the shingle beaches, and where the ledges of\ntrap run darkly into deep water. It was a still night and clear. The\nlambs and ewes were restless in the moonshine; their bleating filled the\nupper solitudes. A shoal of mackerel made a spluttering splashing sound\nbeyond the skerries outside the haven. The ebb, sucking at the weedy\nextremes of the ledges, caused a continuous bubbling sound. There was no\nstir of air, only a breath upon the sea; but, immeasurably remote,\nfrayed clouds, like trailed nets in yellow gulfs of moonlight, shot\nflame-shaped tongues into the dark, and seemed to lick the stars as\nthese shook in the wind. \"No mist to-night,\" Mary muttered; then,\nstartled by her own words, repeated, and again repeated, \"There will be\nno mist to-night.\"\n\nThen she stood as though become stone. Before her, on a solitary rock, a\ngreat bird sat. It was a heron. In the moonshine its plumage glistened\nwhite as foam of the sea; white as one of her lambs it was.\n\nShe had never seen, never heard of, a white heron. There was some old\nGaelic song--what was it?--no, she could not remember--something about\nthe souls of the dead. The words would not come.\n\nSlowly she advanced. The heron did not stir. Suddenly she fell upon her\nknees, and reached out her arms, and her hair fell about her shoulders,\nand her heart beat against her throat, and the grave gave up its sorrow,\nand she cried--\n\n\"Oh, Angus, Angus, my beloved! Angus, Angus, my dear, dear love!\"\n\nShe heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing, knew nothing, till, numbed\nand weak, she stirred with a cry, for some creeping thing of the sea had\ncrossed her hand. She rose and stared about her. There was nothing to\ngive her fear. The moon rays danced on a glimmering sea-pasture far out\nupon the water; their lances and javelins flashed and glinted merrily. A\ndog barked as she crossed the flag-stones at Scaur-a-van, then suddenly\nbegan a strange furtive baying. She called, \"Luath! Luath!\"\n\nThe dog was silent a moment, then threw its head back and howled,\nabruptly breaking again into a sustained baying. The echo swept from\ncroft to croft, and wakened every dog upon the isle.\n\nMary looked back. Slowly circling behind her she saw the white heron.\nWith a cry, she fled into the house.\n\nFor three nights thereafter she saw the white heron. On the third she\nhad no fear. She followed the foam-white bird; and when she could not\nsee it, then she followed its wild, plaintive cry. At dawn she was still\nat Ardfeulan, on the western side of Innisron; but her arms were round\nthe drowned heart whose pulse she had heard leap so swift in joy, and\nher lips put a vain warmth against the dear face that was wan as spent\nfoam, and as chill as that.\n\nThree years after that day Mary saw again the white heron. She was alone\nnow, and she was glad, for she thought Angus had come, and she was\nready.\n\nYet neither death nor sorrow happened. Thrice, night after night, she\nsaw the white gleam of nocturnal wings, heard the strange bewildering\ncry.\n\nIt was on the fourth day, when a fierce gale covered the isle with a\nmist of driving spray. No Innisron boat was outside the haven; for that,\nall were glad. But in the late afternoon a cry went from mouth to mouth.\n\nThere was a fishing-coble on the skerries! That meant death for all on\nboard, for nothing could be done. The moment came soon. A vast drowning\nbillow leaped forward, and when the cloud of spray had scattered, there\nwas no coble to be seen. Only one man was washed ashore, nigh dead, upon\nthe spar he clung to. His name was Eachain MacEachain, son of a Maclean\nof Iona.\n\nAnd that was how Mary Macleod met the friend of Angus, and he a ruined\nman, and how she put her life to his, and they were made one.\n\nHer man ... yes, he was her man, to whom she was loyal and true, and\nwhom she loved right well for many years. But she knew, and he too knew\nwell, that she had wedded one man in her heart, and that no other could\ntake his place there, then or for ever. She had one husband only, but it\nwas not he to whom she was wed, but Angus, the son of Alasdair--him whom\nshe loved with the deep love that surpasseth all wisdom of the world\nthat ever was, or is, or shall be.\n\nAnd Eachain her man lived out his years with her, and was content,\nthough he knew that in her silent heart his wife, who loved him well,\nhad only one lover, one dream, one hope, one passion, one remembrance,\none husband.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SMOOTHING OF THE HAND\n\n\nGlad am I that wherever and whenever I listen intently I can hear the\nlooms of Nature weaving Beauty and Music. But some of the most beautiful\nthings are learned otherwise--by hazard, in the Way of Pain, or at the\nGate of Sorrow.\n\nI learned two things on the day when I saw Seumas McIan dead upon the\nheather. He of whom I speak was the son of Ian McIan Alltnalee, but was\nknown throughout the home straths and the countries beyond as Seumas\nDhu, Black James, or, to render the subtler meaning implied in this\ninstance, James the Dark One. I had wondered occasionally at the\ndesignation, because Seumas, if not exactly fair, was not dark. But the\nname was given to him, as I learned later, because, as commonly\nrumoured, he knew that which he should not have known.\n\nI had been spending some weeks with Alasdair McIan and his wife Silis\n(who was my foster-sister), at their farm of Ardoch, high in a remote\nhill country. One night we were sitting before the peats, listening to\nthe wind crying amid the corries, though, ominously as it seemed to us,\nthere was not a breath in the rowan-tree that grew in the sun's way by\nthe house. Silis had been singing, but silence had come upon us. In the\nwarm glow from the fire we saw each other's faces. There the silence\nlay, strangely still and beautiful, as snow in moonlight. Silis's song\nwas one of the _Dana Spioradail_, known in Gaelic as the Hymn of the\nLooms. I cannot recall it, nor have I ever heard or in any way\nencountered it again.\n\nIt had a lovely refrain, I know not whether its own or added by Silis. I\nhave heard her chant it to other runes and songs. Now, when too late, my\nregret is deep that I did not take from her lips more of those\nsorrowful, strange songs or chants, with their ancient Celtic melodies,\nso full of haunting sweet melancholy, which she loved so well. It was\nwith this refrain that, after a long stillness, she startled us that\nOctober night. I remember the sudden light in the eyes of Alasdair\nMcIan, and the beat at my heart, when, like rain in a wood, her voice\nfell unawares upon us out of the silence:\n\n    _Oh! oh! ohrone, arone! Oh! oh! mo ghraidh, mo chridhe!\n    Oh! oh! mo ghraidh, mo chridhe!_[10]\n\nThe wail, and the sudden break in the second line, had always upon me an\neffect of inexpressible pathos. Often that sad wind-song has been in my\nears, when I have been thinking of many things that are passed and are\npassing.\n\nI know not what made Silis so abruptly begin to sing, and with that\nwailing couplet only, or why she lapsed at once into silence again.\nIndeed, my remembrance of the incident at all is due to the circumstance\nthat shortly after Silis had turned her face to the peats again, a knock\ncame to the door, and then Seumas Dhu entered.\n\n\"Why do you sing that lament, Silis, sister of my father?\" he asked,\nafter he had seated himself beside me, and spread his thin hands against\nthe peat glow, so that the flame seemed to enter within the flesh.\n\nSilis turned to her nephew, and looked at him, as I thought,\nquestioningly. But she did not speak. He, too, said nothing more, either\nforgetful of his question, or content with what he had learned or\nfailed to learn through her silence.\n\nThe wind had come down from the corries before Seumas rose to go. He\nsaid he was not returning to Alltnalee, but was going upon the hill, for\na big herd of deer had come over the ridge of Mel Mor. Seumas, though\nskilled in all hill and forest craft, was not a sure shot, as was his\nkinsman and my host, Alasdair McIan.\n\n\"You will need help,\" I remember Alasdair Ardoch saying mockingly,\nadding, \"_Co dhiubh is fhearr let mise thoir sealladh na faileadh\ndhiubh?_\"--that is to say, Whether would you rather me to deprive them\nof sight or smell?\n\nThis is a familiar saying among the old sportsmen in my country, where\nit is believed that a few favoured individuals have the power to deprive\ndeer of either sight or smell, as the occasion suggests.\n\n\"_Dhuit ciar nan carn!_--The gloom of the rocks be upon you!\" replied\nSeumas, sullenly: \"mayhap the hour is come when the red stag will sniff\nat my nostrils.\"\n\nWith that dark saying he went. None of us saw him again alive.\n\nWas it a forewarning? I have often wondered. Or had he sight of the\nshadow?\n\nIt was three days after this, and shortly after sunrise, that, on\ncrossing the south slope of Mel Mor with Alasdair Ardoch, we came\nsuddenly upon the body of Seumas, half submerged in a purple billow of\nheather. It did not, at the moment, occur to me that he was dead. I had\nnot known that his prolonged absence had been noted, or that he had been\nsearched for. As a matter of fact, he must have died immediately before\nour approach, for his limbs were still loose, and he lay as a sleeper\nlies.\n\nAlasdair kneeled and raised his kinsman's head. When it lay upon the\npurple tussock, the warmth and glow from the sunlit ling gave a fugitive\ndeceptive light to the pale face. I know not whether the sun can have\nany chemic action upon the dead. But it seemed to me that a dream rose\nto the face of Seumas, like one of those submarine flowers that are said\nto rise at times and be visible for a moment in the hollow of a wave.\nThe dream, the light, waned; and there was a great stillness and white\npeace where the trouble had been. \"It is the Smoothing of the Hand,\"\nsaid Alasdair McIan, in a hushed voice.\n\nOften I had heard this lovely phrase in the Western Isles, but always as\napplied to sleep. When a fretful child suddenly falls into quietude and\ndeep slumber, an isleswoman will say that it is because of the Smoothing\nof the Hand. It is always a profound sleep, and there are some who hold\nit almost as a sacred thing, and never to be disturbed.\n\nSo, thinking only of this, I whispered to my friend to come away; that\nSeumas was dead weary with hunting upon the hills; that he would awake\nin due time.\n\nMcIan looked at me, hesitated, and said nothing. I saw him glance\naround. A few yards away, beside a great boulder in the heather, a small\nrowan stood, flickering its feather-like shadows across the white wool\nof a ewe resting underneath. He moved thitherward, slowly, plucked a\nbranch heavy with scarlet berries, and then, having returned, laid it\nacross the breast of his kinsman.\n\nI knew now what was that passing of the trouble in the face of Seumas\nDhu, what that sudden light was, that calming of the sea, that ineffable\nquietude. It was the Smoothing of the Hand.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[10] Pronounce mogh-r[=a]y, mogh-r[=e]e (my heart's delight--_lit._ my dear\none, my heart).\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE FEVER\n\n\nOne night, before the peats, I was told this thing by old Cairstine\nMacdonald, in the isle of Benbecula. It is in her words that I give it:\n\n\nIn the spring of the year that my boy Tormaid died, the moon-daisies\nwere as thick as a woven shroud over the place where Giorsal, the\ndaughter of Ian, the son of Ian MacLeod of Baille 'n Bad-a-sgailich,\nslept night and day.[11]\n\nAll that March the cormorants screamed, famished. There were few fish in\nthe sea, and no kelp-weed was washed up by the high tides. In the island\nand in the near isles, ay, and far north through the mainland, the\nblight lay. Many sickened. I knew young mothers who had no milk. There\nare green mounds in Carnan kirkyard that will be telling you of what\nthis meant. Here and there are little green mounds, each so small that\nyou might cuddle it in your arm under your plaid.\n\nTormaid sickened. A bad day was that for him when he came home, weary\nwith the sea, and drenched to the skin, because of a gale that caught\nhim and his mates off Barra Head. When the March winds tore down the\nMinch, and leaped out from over the Cuchullins, and came west, and lay\nagainst our homes, where the peats were sodden and there was little\nfood, the minister told me that my lad would be in the quiet havens\nbefore long. This was because of the white fever. It was of that same\nthat Giorsal waned, and went out like a thin flame in sunlight.\n\nThe son of my man (years ago weary no more) said little ever. He ate\nnothing almost, even of the next to nothing we had. At nights he couldna\nsleep because of his cough. The coming of May lifted him awhile. I hoped\nhe would see the autumn; and that if he did, and the herring came, and\nthe harvest was had, and what wi' this and what wi' that, he would\nforget his Giorsal that lay i' the mools in the quiet place yonder.\nMaybe then, I thought, the sorrow would go, and take its shadow with\nit.\n\nOne gloaming he came in with all the whiteness of his wasted body in his\nface. His heart was out of its shell; and mine, too, at the sight of\nhim.[12]\n\nThis was the season of the hanging of the dog's mouth.\n\n\"What is it, Tormaid-a-ghaolach?\" I asked, with the sob that was in my\nthroat.\n\n\"_Thraisg mo chridhe_,\" he muttered (My heart is parched). Then, feeling\nthe asking in my eyes, he said, \"I have seen her.\"\n\nI knew he meant Giorsal. My heart sank. But I wore my nails into the\npalms of my hands. Then I said this thing, that is an old saying in the\nisles: \"Those who are in the quiet havens hear neither the wind nor the\nsea.\" He was so weak he could not lie down in the bed. He was in the big\nchair before the peats, with his feet on a _claar_.\n\nWhen the wind was still I read him the Word. A little warm milk was all\nhe would take. I could hear the blood in his lungs sobbing like the\nebb-tide in the sea-weed. This was the thing that he said to me:\n\n\"She came to me, like a grey mist, beyond the dyke of the green place,\nnear the road. The face of her was grey as a grey dawn, but the voice\nwas hers, though I heard it under a wave, so dull and far was it. And\nthese are her words to me, and mine to her--and the first speaking was\nmine, for the silence wore me:\n\n    Am bheil thu' falbh,\n      O mo ghraidh?\n        _B'idh mi falbh,\n          Muirnean!_\n\n    C'uin a thilleas tu,\n      O mo ghraidh?\n      _Cha till mi an rathad so;\n      Tha an't ait e cumhann--\n        O Muirnean, Muirnean!\n      B'idh mi falbh an drugh\n      Am tigh Pharais,\n        Muirnean!_\n\n    Seol dhomh an rathad,\n      Mo ghraidh!\n        _Thig an so, Muirnean-mo,\n          Thig an so!_\n\n    Are you going,\n      My dear one?\n        _Yea, now I am going,\n          Dearest._\n\n    When will you come again,\n      My dear one?\n      _I will not return this way;\n      The place is narrow--\n        O my Darling!\n      I will be going to Paradise,\n        Dear, my dear one!_\n\n    Show me the way,\n      Heart of my heart!\n        _Come hither, dearest, come hither,\n          Come with me!_\n\n\"And then I saw that it was a mist, and that I was alone. But now this\nnight it is that I feel the breath on the soles of my feet.\"\n\nAnd with that I knew there was no hope. \"_Ma tha sin an dan!_ ... if\nthat be ordained,\" was all that rose to my lips. It was that night he\ndied. I fell asleep in the second hour. When I woke in the grey dawn,\nhis face was greyer than that, and more cold.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[11] _Baille 'n Bad-a-sgailich_: the Farm of the Shadowy Clump of Trees.\n_Cairstine_, or _Cairistine_, is the Gaelic for _Christina_ (for\n_Christian_), as _Tormaid_ is for Norman, and _Giorsal_ for Grace. \"The\nquiet havens\" is the beautiful island phrase for graves. Here, also, a\nswift and fatal consumption that falls upon the doomed is called \"The\nWhite Fever.\" By \"the mainland,\" Harris and the Lewis are meant.\n\n[12] _A cockall a' chridhe_: his heart out of its shell--a phrase often\nused to express sudden derangement from any shock. The ensuing phrase\nmeans the month from the 15th of July to the 15th of August, _Mios\ncrochaidh nan con_, so called as it is supposed to be the hottest, if\nnot the most waterless, month in the isles. The word _claar_, used\nbelow, is the name given a small wooden tub, into which the potatoes are\nturned when boiled.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEA-MADNESS\n\n\nI know a man who keeps a little store in a village by one of the lochs\nof Argyll. He is about fifty, is insignificant, commonplace, in his\ninterests parochial, and on Sundays painful to see in his sleek\nrespectability. He lives within sight of the green and grey waters,\nabove which grey mountains stand; across the kyle is a fair wilderness;\nbut to my knowledge he never for pleasure goes upon the hills, nor\nstands by the shore, unless it be of a Saturday night to watch the\nherring-boats come in, or on a Sabbath afternoon when he has word with a\nfriend.\n\nYet this man is one of the strangest men I have met or am like to meet.\nFrom himself I have never heard word but the commonest, and that in a\nmanner somewhat servile. I know his one intimate friend, however. At\nintervals (sometimes of two or three years, latterly each year for three\nyears in succession) this village chandler forgets, and is suddenly\nbecome what he was, or what some ancestor was, in unremembered days.\n\nFor a day or two he is listless, in a still sadness; speaking, when he\nhas to speak, in a low voice; and often looking about him with sidelong\neyes. Then one day he will leave his counter and go to the shed behind\nhis shop, and stand for a time frowning and whispering, or perhaps\nstaring idly, and then go bareheaded up the hillside, and along tangled\nways of bog and heather, and be seen no more for weeks.\n\nHe goes down through the Wilderness locally called The Broken Rocks.\nWhen he is there, he is a strong man, leaping like a goat--swift and\nfurtive. At times he strips himself bare, and sits on a rock staring at\nthe sun. Oftenest he walks along the shore, or goes stumbling among\nweedy boulders, calling loudly upon the sea. His friend, of whom I have\nspoken, told me that he had again and again seen Anndra stoop and lift\nhandfuls out of the running wave and throw the water above his head\nwhile he screamed or shouted strange Gaelic words, some incoherent, some\nold as the grey rocks. Once he was seen striding into the sea, batting\nit with his hands, smiting the tide-swell, and defying it and deriding\nit, with stifled laughters that gave way to cries and sobs of broken\nhate and love.\n\nHe sang songs to it. He threw bracken, and branches, and stones at it,\ncursing: then falling on his knees would pray, and lift the water to his\nlips, and put it on his head. He loved the sea as a man loves a woman.\nIt was his light o' love: his love: his God. Than that desire of his I\nhave not heard of any more terrible. To love the wind and the salt wave,\nand be for ever mocked of the one and baffled of the other; to lift a\nheart of flame, and have the bleak air quench it; to stoop, whispering,\nand kiss the wave, and have its saltness sting the lips and blind the\neyes: this indeed is to know that bitter thing of which so many have\ndied after tears, broken hearts, and madness.\n\nHis friend, whom I will call Neil, once came upon him when he was in\ndread. Neil was in a boat, and had sailed close inshore on the flow.\nAnndra saw him, and screamed.\n\n\"I know who you are! Keep away!\" he cried. \"_Fear faire na h'aon\nsula_--I know you for the One-Eyed Watcher!\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Neil, \"the salt wave went out of his eyes and he knew me,\nand fell on his knees, and wept, and said he was dying of an old broken\nlove. And with that he ran down to the shore, and lifted a palmful of\nwater to his lips, so that for a moment foam hung upon his tangled\nbeard, and called out to his love, and was sore bitter upon her, and\nthen up and laughed and scrambled out of sight, though I heard him\ncrying among the rocks.\"\n\nI asked Neil who the One-Eyed Watcher was. He said he was a man who had\nnever died and never lived. He had only one eye, but that could see\nthrough anything except grey granite, the grey crow's egg, and the grey\nwave that swims at the bottom. He could see the dead in the water, and\nwatched for them: he could see those on the land who came down near the\nsea, if they had death on them. On these he had no pity. But he was\nunseen except at dusk and in the grey dawn. He came out of a grave. He\nwas not a man, but he lived upon the deaths of men. It was worse to be\nalive, and see him, than to be dead and at his feet.\n\nWhen the man Anndra's madness went away from him--sometimes in a week or\ntwo weeks, sometimes not for three weeks or more--he would come back\nacross the hill. In the dark he would slip down through the bracken and\nbog-myrtle, and wait a while among the ragged fuchsias at the dyke of\nhis potato-patch. Then he would creep in at the window of his room, or\nperhaps lift the door-latch and go quietly to his bed. Once Neil was\nthere when he returned. Neil was speaking to Anndra's sister, who kept\nhouse for the poor man. They heard a noise, and the sudden flurried\nclucking of hens.\n\n\"It's Anndra,\" said the woman, with a catch in her throat; and they sat\nin silence, till the door opened. He had been away five weeks, and hair\nand beard were matted, and his face was death-white; but he had already\nslipped into his habitual clothes, and looked the quiet respectable man\nhe was. The two who were waiting for him did not speak.\n\n\"It's a fine night,\" he said; \"it's a fine night, an' no wind.--Marget,\nit's time we had in mair o' thae round cheeses fra Inverary.\"\n\n\n\n\nEARTH, FIRE, AND WATER\n\n\nIn \"The Sea-Madness\" I have told of a man--a quiet dull man, a chandler\nof a little Argyll loch-town--who, at times, left his counter, and small\ncanny ways, and went out into a rocky wilderness, and became mad with\nthe sea. I have heard of many afflicted in some such wise, and have\nknown one or two.\n\nIn a tale written a few years ago, \"The Ninth Wave,\" I wrote of one whom\nI knew, one Ivor MacNeill, or \"Carminish,\" so called because of his farm\nbetween the hills Strondeval and Rondeval, near the Obb of Harris in the\nOuter Hebrides. This man heard the secret calling of the ninth wave.\nNone may hear that, when there is no wave on the sea, or when perhaps he\nis inland, and not follow. That following is always to the ending of all\nfollowing. For a long while Carminish put his fate from him. He went to\nother isles: wherever he went he heard the call of the sea. \"Come,\" it\ncried, \"come, come away!\" He passed at last to a kinsman's croft on\nAird-Vanish in the island of Taransay. He was not free there. He\nstopped at a place where he had no kin, and no memories, and at a\nhidden, quiet farm. This was at Eilean Mhealastaidh, which is under the\nmorning shadow of Griomabhal on the mainland. His nights there were a\nsleepless dread. He went to other places. The sea called. He went at\nlast to his cousin Eachainn MacEachainn's bothy, near Callernish in the\nLews, where the Druid Stones stand by the shore and hear nothing for\never but the noise of the waves and the cry of the sea-wind. There,\nweary in hope, he found peace at last. He slept, and none called upon\nhim. He began to smile, and to hope.\n\nOne night the two were at the porridge, and Eachainn was muttering his\n_Bui 'cheas dha 'n Ti_, the Thanks to the Being, when Carminish leaped\nto his feet, and with a white face stood shaking like a rope in the\nwind.\n\nIn the grey dawn they found his body, stiff and salt with the ooze.\n\nI did not know, but I have heard of another who had a light tragic end.\nSome say he was witless. Others, that he had the Friday-Fate upon him. I\ndo not know what evil he had done, but \"some one\" had met him and said\nto him \"_Bidh ruith na h'Aoin' ort am_ _Feasda_,\" \"The Friday-Fate will\nfollow you for ever.\" So it was said. But I was told this of him: that\nhe had been well and strong and happy, and did not know he had a\nterrible gift, that some have who are born by the sea. It is not well to\nbe born on a Friday night, within sound of the sea; or on certain days.\nThis gift is the \"_Eolas na h'Aoine_,\" the Friday-Spell. He who has this\ngift must not look upon any other while bathing: if he does, that\nswimmer must drown. This man, whom I will call Finlay, had this eolas.\nThree times the evil happened. But the third time he knew what he did:\nthe man who swam in the sunlight loved the same woman as Finlay loved;\nso he stood on the shore, and looked, and laughed. When the body was\nbrought home, the woman struck Finlay in the face. He grew strange after\na time, and at last witless. A year later it was a cold February. Finlay\nwent to and fro singing an old February rhyme beginning:\n\n    _Feadag, Feadag, mathair Faoillich fhuair!_\n\n(Plover, plover, Mother of the bleak Month). He was watching a man\nploughing. Suddenly he threw down his cromak. He leaped over a dyke, and\nran to the shore, calling, \"I'm coming! I'm coming! Don't pull me--I'm\ncoming!\" He fell upon the rocks, which had a blue bloom on them like\nfruit, for they were covered with mussels; and he was torn, so that his\nhands and face were streaming red. \"I am your red, red love,\" he cried,\n\"sweetheart, my love\"; and with that he threw himself into the sea.\n\nMore often the sea-call is not a madness, but an inward voice. I have\nbeen told of a man who was a farmer in Carrick of Ayr. He left wife and\nhome because of the calling of the sea. But when he was again in the far\nisles, where he had lived formerly, he was well once more. Another man\nheard the sobbing of the tide among seaweed whenever he dug in his\ngarden: and gave up all, and even the woman he loved, and left. She won\nhim back, by her love; but on the night before their marriage, in that\ninland place where her farm was, he slipt away and was not seen again.\nAgain, there was the man of whom I have spoken in \"Iona,\" who went to\nthe mainland, but could not see to plough because the brown fallows\nbecame waves that splashed noisily about him: and how he went to Canada\nand got work in a great warehouse, but among the bales of merchandise\nheard continually the singular note of the sandpiper, while every hour\nthe sea-fowl confused him with their crying.\n\nI have myself in lesser degree, known this irresistible longing. I am\nnot fond of towns, but some years ago I had to spend a winter in a great\ncity. It was all-important to me not to leave during January; and in one\nway I was not ill-pleased, for it was a wild winter. But one night I\nwoke, hearing a rushing sound in the street--the sound of water. I would\nhave thought no more of it, had I not recognised the troubled noise of\nthe tide, and the sucking and lapsing of the flow in weedy hollows. I\nrose and looked out. It was moonlight, and there was no water. When,\nafter sleepless hours, I rose in the grey morning I heard the splash of\nwaves. All that day and the next I heard the continual noise of waves. I\ncould not write or read; at last I could not rest. On the afternoon of\nthe third day the waves dashed up against the house. I said what I could\nto my friends, and left by the night train. In the morning we (for a\nkinswoman was with me) stood on Greenock Pier waiting for the Hebridean\nsteamer, the _Clansman_, and before long were landed on an island,\nalmost the nearest we could reach, and one that I loved well. We had to\nbe landed some miles from the place I wanted to go to, and it was a\nlong and cold journey. The innumerable little waterfalls hung in icicles\namong the mosses, ferns, and white birches on the roadsides. Before we\nreached our destination, we saw a wonderful sight. From three great\nmountains, their flanks flushed with faint rose, their peaks, white and\nsolemn, vast columns of white smoke ascended. It was as though volcanic\nfires had once again broken their long stillness. Then we saw what it\nwas: the north wind (unheard, unfelt, where we stood) blew a hurricane\nagainst the other side of the peaks, and, striking upon the leagues of\nhard snow, drove it upward like smoke, till the columns rose gigantic\nand hung between the silence of the white peaks and the silence of the\nstars.\n\nThat night, with the sea breaking less than a score yards from where I\nlay, I slept, though for three nights I had not been able to sleep. When\nI woke, my trouble was gone.\n\nIt was but a reminder to me. But to others it was more than that.\n\nI remember that winter for another thing, which I may write of here.\n\nFrom the fisherman's wife with whom I lodged I learned that her daughter\nhad recently borne a son, but was now up and about again, though for\nthe first time, that morning. We went to her, about noon. She was not in\nthe house. A small cabbage-garden lay behind, and beyond it the mossy\nedge of a wood of rowans and birches broke steeply in bracken and\nloneroid. The girl was there, and had taken the child from her breast,\nand kneeling, was touching the earth with the small lint-white head.\n\nI asked her what she was doing. She said it was the right thing to do;\nthat as soon as possible after the child was born, the mother should\ntake it--and best, at noon, and facing the sun--and touch its brow to\nthe earth. My friends (like many islanders of the Inner Hebrides, they\nhad no Gaelic) used an unfamiliar phrase; \"It's the old Mothering.\" It\nwas, in truth, the sacrament of Our Mother, but in a far ancient sense.\nI do not doubt the rite is among the most primitive of those practised\nby the Celtic peoples.\n\nI have not seen it elsewhere, though I have heard of it. Probably it is\noften practised yet in remote places. Even where we were, the women were\nsomewhat fearful lest \"the minister\" heard of what the young mother had\ndone. They do not love these beautiful symbolic actions, these\n\"ministers,\" to whom they are superstitions. This old, pagan,\nsacramental earth-rite is, certainly, beautiful. How could one better be\nblessed, on coming into life, than to have the kiss of that ancient\nMother of whom we are all children? There must be wisdom in that first\ntouch. I do not doubt that behind the symbol lies, at times, the old\nmiraculous communication. For, even in this late day, some of us are\nborn with remembrance, with dumb worship, with intimate and uplifting\nkinship to that Mother.\n\nSince then I have asked often, in many parts of the Highlands and\nIslands, for what is known of this rite, when and where practised, and\nwhat meanings it bears; and some day I hope to put these notes on\nrecord. I am convinced that the Earth-Blessing is more ancient than the\nwestward migration of the Celtic peoples.\n\nI have both read and heard of another custom, though I have not known of\nit at first-hand. The last time I was told of it was of a crofter and\nhis wife in North Uist. The once general custom is remembered in a\nfamiliar Gaelic saying, the English of which is, \"He got a turn through\nthe smoke.\" After baptism, a child was taken from the breast, and handed\nby its mother (sometimes the child was placed in a basket) to the\nfather, across the fire. I do not think, but am not sure, if any signal\nmeaning lie in the mother handing the child to the father. When the rite\nis spoken of, as often as not it is only \"the parents\" that the speaker\nalludes to. The rite is universally recognised as a spell against the\ndominion, or agency, of evil spirits. In Coll and Tiree, it is to keep\nthe Hidden People from touching or singing to the child. I think it is\nan ancient propitiatory rite, akin to that which made our ancestors\ntouch the new-born to earth; as that which makes some islanders still\nbaptize a child with a little spray from the running wave, or a\nfingerful of water from the tide at the flow; as that which made an old\nwoman lift me as a little child and hold me up to the south wind, \"to\nmake me strong and fair and always young, and to keep back death and\nsorrow, and to keep me safe from other winds and evil spirits.\" Old\nBarabal has gone where the south wind blows, in blossom and flowers and\ngreen leaves, across the pastures of Death; and I ... alas, I can but\nwish that One stronger than she, for all her love, will lift me, as a\nchild again, to the Wind, and pass me across the Fire, and set me down\nagain upon a new Earth.\n\n\n\n\nFROM \"GREEN FIRE\"\n\n\n  _Be not troubled in the inward Hope. It lives in beauty, and the\n  hand of God slowly wakens it year by year, and through the many ways\n  of Sorrow. It is an Immortal, and its name is Joy._\n\n                                                               F. M.\n\n\n\n\nThe Herdsman\n\n\nOn the night when Alan Carmichael with his old servant and friend, Ian\nM'Ian, arrived in Balnaree (\"Baile'-na-Righ\"), the little village\nwherein was all that Borosay had to boast of in the way of civic life,\nhe could not disguise from himself that he was regarded askance.\n\nRightly or wrongly, he took this to be resentment because of his having\nwed (alas, he recalled, wed and lost) the daughter of the man who had\nkilled Ailean Carmichael in a duel. So possessed was he by this idea,\nthat he did not remember how little likely the islanders were to know\nanything of him or his beyond the fact that Ailean MacAlasdair Rhona had\ndied abroad.\n\nThe trouble became more than an imaginary one when, on the morrow, he\ntried to find a boat for the passage to Rona. But for the Frozen Hand,\nas the triple-peaked hill to the south of Balnaree was called, Rona\nwould have been visible; nor was it, with a fair wind, more than an\nhour's sail distant.\n\nNevertheless, he could detect in every one to whom he spoke a strange\nreluctance. At last he asked an old man of his own surname why there was\nso much difficulty.\n\nIn the island way, Seumas Carmichael replied that the people on Elleray,\nthe island adjacent to Rona, were unfriendly.\n\n\"But unfriendly at what?\"\n\n\"Well, at this and at that. But for one thing, they are not having any\ndealings with the Carmichaels. They are all Macneills there, Macneills\nof Barra. There is a feud, I am thinking; though I know nothing of it;\nno, not I.\"\n\n\"But Seumas mac Eachainn, you know well yourself that there are almost\nno Carmichaels to have a feud with! There are you and your brother, and\nthere is your cousin over at Sgorr-Bhan on the other side of Borosay.\nWho else is there?\"\n\nTo this the man could say nothing. Distressed, Alan sought Ian and bade\nhim find out what he could. He also was puzzled and uneasy. That some\nevil was at work could not be doubted, and that it was secret boded\nill.\n\nIan was a stranger in Borosay because of his absence since boyhood; but,\nafter all, Ian mac Iain mhic Dhonuill was to the islanders one of\nthemselves; and though he came there with a man under a shadow (though\nthis phrase was not used in Ian's hearing), that was not his fault.\n\nAnd when he reminded them that for these many years he had not seen the\nold woman, his sister Giorsal; and spoke of her, and of their long\nseparation, and of his wish to see her again before he died, there was\nno more hesitation, but only kindly willingness to help.\n\nWithin an hour a boat was ready to take the homefarers to the Isle of\nCaves, as Rona is sometimes called. Before the hour was gone, they, with\nthe stores of food and other things, were slipping seaward out of\nBorosay Haven.\n\nThe moment the headland was rounded, the heights of Rona came into view.\nGreat gaunt cliffs they are, precipices of black basalt; though on the\nsouth side they fall away in grassy declivities which hang a greenness\nover the wandering wave for ever sobbing round that desolate shore. But\nit was not till the Sgorr-Dhu, a conical black rock at the south-east\nend of the island, was reached, that the stone keep, known as\nCaisteal-Rhona, came in sight.\n\nIt stands at the landward extreme of a rocky ledge, on the margin of a\ngreen _airidh_. Westward is a small dark-blue sea loch, no more than a\nnarrow haven. To the north-west rise precipitous cliffs; northward,\nabove the green pasture and a stretch of heather, is a woodland belt of\nsome three or four hundred pine-trees. It well deserves its poetic name\nof I-monair, as Aodh the Islander sang of it; for it echoes ceaselessly\nwith wind and wave. If the waves dash against it from the south or east,\na loud crying is upon the faces of the rocks; if from the north or\nnorth-east, there are unexpected inland silences, but amid the pines a\ncontinual voice. It is when the wind blows from the south-west, or the\nhuge Atlantic billows surge out of the west, that Rona is given over to\nan indescribable tumult. Through the whole island goes the myriad echo\nof a continuous booming; and within this a sound as though waters were\npouring through vast hidden conduits in the heart of every precipice,\nevery rock, every boulder. This is because of the sea-arcades of which\nit consists, for from the westward the island has been honeycombed by\nthe waves. No living man has ever traversed all those mysterious,\nwinding sea-galleries. Many have perished in the attempt. In the olden\ndays the Uisteans and Barrovians sought refuge there from the marauding\nDanes and other pirates out of Lochlin; and in the time when the last\nScottish king took shelter in the west, many of his island followers\nfound safety among these perilous arcades.\n\nSome of them reach an immense height. These are filled with a pale green\ngloom which in fine weather, and at noon or toward sundown, becomes\nalmost radiant. But most have only a dusky green obscurity, and some are\nat all times dark with a darkness that has seen neither sun nor moon nor\nstar for unknown ages. Sometimes, there, a phosphorescent wave will\nspill a livid or a cold blue flame, and for a moment a vast gulf of\ndripping basalt be revealed; but day and night, night and day, from year\nto year, from age to age, that awful wave-clamant darkness is unbroken.\n\nTo the few who know some of the secrets of the passages, it is possible,\nexcept when a gale blows from any quarter but the north, to thread these\ndim arcades in a narrow boat, and so to pass from the Hebrid Seas to the\nouter Atlantic. But for the unwary there might well be no return; for in\nthat maze of winding galleries and sea-washed, shadowy arcades,\nconfusion is but another name for death. Once bewildered, there is no\nhope; and the lost adventurer will remain there idly drifting from\nbarren passage to passage, till he perish of hunger and thirst, or,\nmaddened by the strange and appalling gloom and the unbroken\nsilence--for there the muffled voice of the sea is no more than a\nwhisper--leap into the green waters which for ever slide stealthily from\nledge to ledge.\n\nNow, as Alan approached his remote home, he thought of these\ndeath-haunted corridors, avenues of the grave, as they are called in the\n\"Cumha Fhir-Mearanach Aonghas mhic Dhonuill\"--the Lament of mad Angus\nMacdonald.\n\nWhen at last the unwieldy brown coble sailed into the little haven, it\nwas to create unwonted excitement among the few fishermen who put in\nthere frequently for bait. A group of eight or ten was upon the rocky\nledge beyond Caisteal-Rhona, among them the elderly woman who was sister\nto Ian mac Iain.\n\nAt Alan's request, Ian went ashore in advance in a small punt. He was to\nwave his hand if all were well, for Alan could not but feel\napprehensive on account of the strange ill-will that had shown itself at\nBorosay.\n\nIt was with relief that he saw the signal when, after Ian had embraced\nhis sister, and shaken hands with all the fishermen, he had explained\nthat the son of Ailean Carmichael was come out of the south, and had\ncome to live a while at Caisteal-Rhona.\n\nAll there uncovered and waved their hats. Then a shout of welcome went\nup, and Alan's heart was glad. But the moment he had set foot on land he\nsaw a startled look come into the eyes of the fishermen--a look that\ndeepened swiftly into one of aversion, almost of fear.\n\nOne by one the men moved away, awkward in their embarrassment. Not one\ncame forward with outstretched hand, or said a word of welcome.\n\nAt first amazed, then indignant, Ian reproached them. They received his\nwords in shamed silence. Even when with a bitter tongue he taunted them,\nthey answered nothing.\n\n\"Giorsal,\" said Ian, turning in despair to his sister, \"is it madness\nthat you have?\"\n\nBut even she was no longer the same. Her eyes were fixed upon Alan with\na look of dread, and indeed of horror. It was unmistakable, and Alan\nhimself was conscious of it with a strange sinking of the heart. \"Speak,\nwoman!\" he demanded. \"What is the meaning of this thing? Why do you and\nthese men look at me askance?\"\n\n\"God forbid!\" answered Giorsal Macdonald with white lips; \"God forbid\nthat we look at the son of Ailean Carmichael askance. But----\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\nWith that the woman put her apron over her head and moved away,\nmuttering strange words.\n\n\"Ian, what is this mystery?\"\n\n\"How am I for knowing, Alan mac Ailean? It is all a darkness to me also.\nBut I will be finding that out soon.\"\n\nThat, however, was easier for Ian to say than to do. Meanwhile, the\nbrown coble tacked back to Borosay, and the fisherman sailed away to the\nBarra coasts, and Alan and Ian were left solitary in their wild and\nremote home.\n\nBut in that very solitude Alan found healing. From what Giorsal hinted,\nhe came to believe that the fishermen had experienced one of those\nstrange dream-waves which, in remote isles, occur at times, when whole\ncommunities will be wrought by the self-same fantasy. When day by day\nwent past, and no one came near, he at first was puzzled, and even\nresentful; but this passed, and soon he was glad to be alone. Ian,\nhowever, knew that there was another cause for the inexplicable aversion\nthat had been shown. But he was silent, and kept a patient watch for the\nhour that the future held in its shroud. As for Giorsal, she was dumb;\nbut no more looked at Alan askance.\n\nAnd so the weeks went. Occasionally a fishing smack came with the\nprovisions, for the weekly despatch of which Alan had arranged at Loch\nBoisdale, and sometimes the Barra men put in at the haven, though they\nwould never stay long, and always avoided Alan as much as was possible.\n\nIn that time Alan and Ian came to know and love their strangely\nbeautiful island home. Hours and hours at a time they spent exploring\nthe dim, green, winding sea-galleries, till at last they knew the chief\narcades thoroughly.\n\nThey had even ventured into some of the narrow, snake-like inner\npassages, but never for long, because of the awe and dread these held,\nsilent estuaries of the grave.\n\nWeek after week passed, and to Alan it was as the going of the grey\nowl's wing, swift and silent.\n\n\nThen it was that, on a day of the days, he was suddenly stricken with a\nnew and startling dread.\n\n\nII\n\nIn the hour that this terror came upon him Alan was alone upon the high\nslopes of Rona, where the grass fails and the lichen yellows at close on\na thousand feet above the sea.\n\nThe day had been cloudless since sunrise. The sea was as the single vast\npetal of an azure flower, all of one unbroken blue save for the shadows\nof the scattered isles and the slow-drifting mauve or purple of floating\nweed. Countless birds congregated from every quarter. Guillemots and\npuffins, cormorants and northern divers, everywhere darted, swam, or\nslept upon the listless ocean, whose deep breathing no more than lifted\na league-long calm here and there, to lapse breathlike as it rose.\nThrough the not less silent quietudes of air the grey skuas swept with\ncurving flight, and the narrow-winged terns made a constant white\nshimmer. At remote altitudes the gannet motionlessly drifted. Oceanward\nthe great widths of calm were rent now and again by the shoulders of the\nporpoises which followed the herring trail, their huge, black, revolving\nbodies looming large above the silent wave. Not a boat was visible\nanywhere; not even upon the most distant horizons did a brown sail fleck\nitself duskily against the skyward wall of steely blue.\n\nIn the great stillness which prevailed, the noise of the surf beating\naround the promontory of Aonaig was audible as a whisper; though even in\nthat windless hour the confused rumour of the sea, moving through the\narcades of the island, filled the hollow of the air overhead. Ever since\nthe early morning Alan had moved under a strange gloom. Out of that\ngolden glory of midsummer a breath of joyous life should have reached\nhis heart, but it was not so. For sure, there is sometimes in the quiet\nbeauty of summer an air of menace, a premonition of suspended force--a\nforce antagonistic and terrible. All who have lived in these lonely\nisles know the peculiar intensity of this summer melancholy. No noise of\nwind, no prolonged season of untimely rains, no long baffling of mists\nin all the drear inclemencies of that remote region, can produce the\nsame ominous and even paralysing gloom sometimes born of ineffable\npeace and beauty. Is it that in the human soul there is a mysterious\nkinship with the outer soul which we call Nature; and that in these few\nsupreme hours which come at the full of the year, we are, sometimes,\nsuddenly aware of the tremendous forces beneath and behind us, momently\nquiescent?\n\nDetermined to shake off this dejection, Alan wandered high among the\nupland solitudes. There a cool air moved always, even in the noons of\nAugust; and there, indeed, often had come upon him a deep peace. But\nwhatsoever the reason, only a deeper despondency possessed him. An\nincident, significant in that mood, at that time, happened then. A few\nhundred yards away from where he stood, half hidden in a little glen\nwhere a fall of water tossed its spray among the shadows of rowan and\nbirch, was the bothie of a woman, the wife of Neil MacNeill, a fisherman\nof Aoinaig. She was there, he knew, for the summer pasturing; and even\nas he recollected this, he heard the sound of her voice as she sang\nsomewhere by the burnside. Moving slowly toward the corrie, he stopped\nat a mountain ash which over hung a pool. Looking down, he saw the\nwoman, Morag MacNeill, washing and peeling potatoes in the clear brown\nwater. And as she washed and peeled, she sang an old-time shealing hymn\nof the Virgin-Shepherdess, of Michael the White, and of Columan the\nDove. It was a song that, years ago, far away in Brittany, he had heard\nfrom his mother's lips. He listened now to every word of the doubly\nfamiliar Gaelic; and when Morag ended, the tears were in his eyes, and\nhe stood for a while as one under a spell.[13]\n\n    \"A Mhicheil mhin! nan steud geala,\n    A choisin cios air Dragon fala,\n    Air ghaol Dia 'us Mhic Muire,\n    Sgaoil do sgiath oirnn dian sinn uile,\n    Sgaoil do sgiath oirnn dian sinn uile.\n\n    \"A Mhoire ghradhach! Mathair Uain-ghil,\n    Cobhair oirnne, Oigh na h-uaisle;\n    A rioghainn uai'reach! a bhuachaille nan treud!\n    Cum ar cuallach cuartaich sinn le cheil,\n    Cum ar cuallach cuartaich sinn le cheil.\n\n    \"A Chalum-Chille: chairdeil, chaoimh,\n    An ainm Athar, Mic, 'us Spioraid Naoimh,\n    Trid na Trithinn! trid na Triath!\n    Comraig sinne, gleidh ar trial,\n    Comraig sinne, gleidh ar trial.\n\n    \"Athair! A Mhic! A Spioraid Naoimh!\n    Bi'eadh an Tri-Aon leinn, a la's a dh-oidhche!\n    'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nan beann,\n    Bi'dh ar Mathair leinn, 's bith a lamh fo'r ceann,\n    Bi'dh ar Mathair leinn, 's bith a lamh fo'r ceann.\n\n    \"Thou gentle Michael of the white steed,\n    Who subdued the Dragon of blood,\n    For love of God and the Son of Mary,\n    Spread over us thy wing, shield us all!\n    Spread over us thy wing, shield us all!\n\n    \"Mary beloved! Mother of the White Lamb,\n    Protect us, thou Virgin of nobleness,\n    Queen of beauty! Shepherdess of the flocks!\n    Keep our cattle, surround us together,\n    Keep our cattle, surround us together.\n\n    \"Thou Columba, the friendly, the kind,\n    In name of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit Holy,\n    Through the Three-in-One, through the Three,\n    Encompass us, guard our procession,\n    Encompass us, guard our procession.\n\n    \"Thou Father! thou Son! thou Spirit Holy!\n    Be the Three-in-One with us day and night.\n    And on the crested wave, or on the mountain side.\n    Our Mother is there, and her arm is under our head,\n    Our Mother is there, and her arm is under our head.\"\n\nAlan found himself repeating whisperingly, and again and again--\n\n    \"Bi 'eadh an Tri-Aon leinn, a la's a dh-oidhche!\n    'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann.\"\n\nSuddenly the woman glanced upward, perhaps because of the shadow that\nmoved against the green bracken below. With a startled gesture she\nsprang to her feet. Alan looked at her kindly, saying, with a smile,\n\"Sure, Morag nic Tormod, it is not fear you need be having of one who is\nyour friend.\" Then, seeing that the woman stared at him with something\nof terror as well as surprise, he spoke to her again.\n\n\"Sure, Morag, I am no stranger that you should be looking at me with\nthose foreign eyes.\" He laughed as he spoke, and made as though he were\nabout to descend to the burnside. Unmistakably, however, the woman did\nnot desire his company. He saw this, with the pain and bewilderment\nwhich had come upon him whenever the like happened, as so often it had\nhappened since he had come to Rona.\n\n\"Tell me, Morag MacNeill, what is the meaning of this strangeness that\nis upon you? Why do you not speak? Why do you turn away your head?\"\n\nSuddenly the woman flashed her black eyes upon him.\n\n\"Have you ever heard of _am Buachaill Ban--am Buachaill Buidhe?_\"\n\nHe looked at her in amaze. _Am Buachaill Ban!_ ... The fair-haired\nHerdsman, the yellow-haired Herdsman! What could she mean? In days gone\nby, he knew, the islanders, in the evil time after Culloden, had so\nnamed the fugitive Prince who had sought shelter in the Hebrides; and in\nsome of the runes of an older day still the Saviour of the World was\nsometimes so called, just as Mary was called _Bhuachaile nan\ntreud_--Shepherdess of the Flock. But it could be no allusion to either\nof these that was intended.\n\n\"Who is the Herdsman of whom you speak, Morag?\"\n\n\"Is it no knowledge you have of him at all, Alan MacAilean?\"\n\n\"None. I know nothing of the man, nothing of what is in your mind. Who\nis the Herdsman?\"\n\n\"You will not be putting evil upon me because that you saw me here by\nthe pool before I saw you?\"\n\n\"Why should I, woman? Why do you think that I have the power of the evil\neye? Sure, I have done no harm to you or yours, and wish none. But if it\nis for peace to you to know it, it is no evil I wish you, but only\ngood. The Blessing of Himself be upon you and yours and upon your\nhouse!\"\n\nThe woman looked relieved, but still cast her furtive gaze upon Alan,\nwho no longer attempted to join her.\n\n\"I cannot be speaking the thing that is in my mind, Alan MacAilean. It\nis not for me to be saying that thing. But if you have no knowledge of\nthe Herdsman, sure it is only another wonder of the wonders, and God has\nthe sun on that shadow, to the Stones be it said.\"\n\n\"But tell me, Morag, who is the Herdsman of whom you speak?\"\n\nFor a minute or more the woman stood regarding him intently. Then\nslowly, and with obvious reluctance, she spoke--\n\n\"Why have you appeared to the people upon the isles, sometimes by\nmoonlight, sometimes by day or in the dusk, and have foretold upon one\nand all who dwell here black gloom and the red flame of sorrow? Why have\nyou, who are an outcast because of what lies between you and another,\npretended to be a messenger of the Son--ay, for sure, even, God forgive\nyou, to be the Son Himself?\"\n\nAlan stared at the woman. For a time he could utter no word. Had some\nextraordinary delusion spread among the islanders, and was there in the\ninsane accusation of this woman the secret of that which had so troubled\nhim?\n\n\"This is all an empty darkness to me, Morag. Speak more plainly, woman.\nWhat is all this madness that you say? When have I spoken of having any\nmission, or of being other than I am? When have I foretold evil upon you\nor yours, or upon the isles beyond? What man has ever dared to say that\nAlan MacAilean of Rona is an outcast? And what sin is it that lies\nbetween me and another of which you know?\"\n\nIt was impossible for Morag MacNeill to doubt the sincerity of the man\nwho spoke to her. She crossed herself, and muttered the words of a\n_seun_ for the protection of the soul against the demon powers. Still,\neven while she believed in Alan's sincerity, she could not reconcile it\nwith that terrible and strange mystery with which rumour had filled her\nears. So, having nothing to say in reply to his eager questions, she\ncast down her eyes and kept silence.\n\n\"Speak, Morag, for Heaven's sake! Speak if you are a true woman; you\nthat see a man in sore pain, in pain, too, for that of which he knows\nnothing, and of the ill of which he is guiltless!\"\n\nBut, keeping her face averted, the woman muttered simply, \"I have no\nmore to say.\" With that she turned and moved slowly along the pathway\nwhich led from the pool to her hillside bothie.\n\nWith a sigh, Alan walked slowly away. What wonder, he thought, that deep\ngloom had been upon him that day? Here, in the woman's mysterious words,\nwas the shadow of that shadow.\n\nSlowly, brooding deep over what he had heard, he crossed the\nMonadh-nan-Con, as the hill-tract there was called, till he came to the\nrocky wilderness known as the Slope of the Caverns.\n\nThere for a time he leaned against a high boulder, idly watching a few\nsheep nibbling the short grass which grew about some of the many caves\nwhich opened in slits or wide hollows. Below and beyond he saw the pale\nblue silence of the sea meet the pale blue silence of the sky;\nsouth-westward, the grey film of the coast of Ulster; westward, again\nthe illimitable vast of sea and sky, infinitudes of calm, as though the\nblue silence of heaven breathed in that one motionless wave, as though\nthat wave sighed and drew the horizons to its heart. From where he\nstood he could hear the murmur of the surge whispering all round the\nisle; the surge that, even on days of profound stillness, makes a\nmurmurous rumour among the rocks and shingle of the island shores. Not\nupon the moor-side, but in the blank hollows of the caves around him, he\nheard, as in gigantic shells, the moving of a strange and solemn rhythm:\nwave-haunted shells indeed, for the echo that was bruited from one to\nthe other came from beneath, from out of those labyrinthine passages and\ndim, shadowy sea-arcades, where among the melancholy green glooms the\nAtlantic waters lose themselves in a vain wandering.\n\nFor long he leaned there, revolving in his mind the mystery of Morag\nMacNeill's words. Then, abruptly, the stillness was broken by the sound\nof a dislodged stone. So little did he expect the foot of fellow-man,\nthat he did not turn at what he thought to be the slip of a sheep. But\nwhen upon the slope of the grass, a little way beyond where he stood, a\ndusky blue shadow wavered fantastically, he swung round with a sudden\ninstinct of dread.\n\nAnd this was the dread which, after these long weeks since he had come\nto Rona, was upon Alan Carmichael.\n\nFor there, standing quietly by another boulder, at the mouth of another\ncave, was a man in all appearance identical with himself. Looking at\nthis apparition, he beheld one of the same height as himself, with hair\nof the same hue, with eyes the same and features the same, with the same\ncarriage, the same smile, the same expression. No, there, and there\nalone, was any difference.\n\nSick at heart, Alan wondered if he looked upon his own wraith. Familiar\nwith the legends of his people, it would have been no strange thing to\nhim that there, upon the hillside, should appear the wraith of himself.\nHad not old Ian McIain--and that, too, though far away in a strange\nland--seen the death of his mother moving upward from her feet to her\nknees, from her knees to her waist, from her waist to her neck, and,\njust before the end, how the shroud darkened along the face until it hid\nthe eyes? Had he not often heard from her, from Ian, of the second self\nwhich so often appears beside the living when already the shadow of doom\nis upon him whose hours are numbered? Was this, then, the reason of what\nhad been his inexplicable gloom? Was he indeed at the extreme of life?\nWas his soul amid shallows, already a rock upon a blank, inhospitable\nshore? If not, who or what was this second self which leaned there\nnegligently, looking at him with scornful smiling lips, but with intent,\nunsmiling eyes.\n\nSlowly there came into his mind this thought: How could a phantom, that\nwas itself intangible, throw a shadow upon the grass, as though it were\na living body? Sure, a shadow there was indeed. It lay between the\napparition and himself. A legend heard in boyhood came back to him;\ninstinctively he stooped and lifted a stone and flung it midway into the\nshadow.\n\n\"Go back into the darkness,\" he cried, \"if out of the darkness you came;\nbut if you be a living thing, put out your hands!\"\n\nThe shadow remained motionless. When Alan looked again at his second\nself, he saw that the scorn which had been upon the lips was now in the\neyes also. Ay, for sure, scornful silent laughter it was that lay in\nthose cold wells of light. No phantom that; a man he, even as Alan\nhimself. His heart pulsed like that of a trapped bird, but with the\nspoken word his courage came back to him.\n\n\"Who are you?\" he asked, in a voice strange even in his own ears.\n\n\"_Am Buachaill_,\" replied the man in a voice as low and strange. \"I am\nthe Herdsman.\"\n\nA new tide of fear surged in upon Alan. That voice, was it not his own?\nthat tone, was it not familiar in his ears? When the man spoke, he heard\nhimself speak; sure, if he were _Am Buachaill Ban_, Alan, too, was the\nHerdsman, though what fantastic destiny might be his was all unknown to\nhim.\n\n\"Come near,\" said the man, and now the mocking light in his eyes was\nwild as cloud-fire--\"come near, oh _Buachaill Ban_!\"\n\nWith a swift movement, Alan sprang forward; but as he leaped, his foot\ncaught in a spray of heather, and he stumbled and fell. When he rose, he\nlooked in vain for the man who had called him. There was not a sign, not\na trace of any living being. For the first few moments he believed it\nhad all been a delusion. Mortal being did not appear and vanish in that\nghostly way. Still, surely he could not have mistaken the blank of that\nplace for a speaking voice, or out of nothingness have fashioned the\nliving phantom of himself? Or could he? With that, he strode forward and\npeered into the wide arch of the cavern by which the man had stood. He\ncould not see far into it; but so far as it was possible to see, he\ndiscerned neither man nor shadow of man, nor anything that stirred; no,\nnot even the gossamer bloom of a bearnan-bride, that grew on a patch of\ngrass a yard or two within the darkness, had lost one of its delicate\nfilmy spires. He drew back, dismayed. Then, suddenly, his heart leaped\nagain, for beyond all question, all possible doubt, there, in the bent\nthyme, just where the man had stood, was the imprint of his feet. Even\nnow the green sprays were moving forward.\n\n\nIII\n\nAn hour passed, and Alan Carmichael had not moved from the entrance to\nthe cave. So still was he that a ewe, listlessly wandering in search of\ncooler grass, lay down after a while, drowsily regarding him with her\namber-coloured eyes. All his thought was upon the mystery of what he had\nseen. No delusion this, he was sure. That was a man whom he had seen.\nBut who could he be? On so small an island, inhabited by less than a\nscore of crofters, it was scarcely possible for one to live for many\nweeks and not know the name and face of every soul. Still, a stranger\nmight have come. Only, if this were so, why should he call himself the\nHerdsman? There was but one herdsman on Rona and he Angus MacCormic, who\nlived at Einaval on the north side. In these outer isles, the shepherd\nand the herdsman are appointed by the community, and no man is allowed\nto be one or the other at will, any more than to be a _maor_. Then, too,\nif this man were indeed herdsman, where was his _iomair-ionailtair_, his\nbrowsing tract? Looking round him, Alan could perceive nowhere any\nfitting pasture. Surely no herdsman would be content with such an\n_iomair a bhuachaill_--rig of the herdsman--as that rocky wilderness\nwhere the soft green grass grew in patches under this or that boulder,\non the sun side of this or that rocky ledge. Again, he had given no\nname, but called himself simply _Am Buachaill_. This was how the woman\nMorag had spoken; did she indeed mean this very man? and if so, what lay\nin her words? But far beyond all other bewilderment for him was that\nstrange, that indeed terrifying likeness to himself--a likeness so\nabsolute, so convincing, that he knew he might himself easily have been\ndeceived, had he beheld the apparition in any place where it was\npossible that a reflection could have misled him.\n\nBrooding thus, eye and ear were both alert for the faintest sight or\nsound. But from the interior of the cavern not a breath came. Once, from\namong the jagged rocks high on the west slope of Ben Einaval, he\nfancied he heard an unwonted sound--that of human laughter, but laughter\nso wild, so remote, so unmirthful, that fear was in his heart. It could\nnot be other than imagination, he said to himself; for in that lonely\nplace there was none to wander idly at that season, and none who,\nwandering, would laugh there solitary.\n\nIt was with an effort that Alan at last determined to probe the mystery.\nStooping, he moved cautiously into the cavern, and groped his way along\nthe narrow passage which led, as he thought, into another larger cave.\nBut this proved to be one of the innumerable blind ways which intersect\nthe honeycombed slopes of the Isle of Caves. To wander far in these\nlightless passages would be to track death. Long ago the piper whom the\nPrionnsa-Ban, the Fair Prince, loved to hear in his exile--he that was\ncalled Rory M'Vurich--penetrated one of the larger hollows to seek there\nfor a child that had idly wandered into the dark. Some of the clansmen,\nwith the father and mother of the little one, waited at the entrance to\nthe cave. For a time there was silence; then, as agreed upon, the sound\nof the pipes was heard, to which a man named Lachlan M'Lachlan replied\nfrom the outer air. The skirl of the pipes within grew fainter and\nfainter. Louder and louder Lachlan played upon his chanter; deeper and\ndeeper grew the wild moaning of the drone; but for all that, fainter and\nfainter waned the sound of the pipes of Rory M'Vurich. Generations have\ncome and gone upon the isle, and still no man has heard the returning\nair which Rory was to play. He may have found the little child, but he\nnever found his backward path, and in the gloom of that honeycombed hill\nhe and the child and the music of the pipes lapsed into the same\nstillness. Remembering this legend, familiar to him since his boyhood,\nAlan did not dare to venture further. At any moment, too, he knew he\nmight fall into one of the crevices which opened into the sea-corridors\nhundreds of feet below. Ancient rumour had it that there were mysterious\npassages from the upper heights of Ben Einaval which led into the heart\nof this perilous maze. But for a time he lay still, straining every\nsense. Convinced at last that the man whom he sought had evaded all\npossible quest, he turned to regain the light. Brief way as he had gone,\nthis was no easy thing to do. For a few moments, indeed, Alan lost his\nself-possession when he found a uniform dusk about him, and could not\ndiscern which of the several branching narrow corridors was that by\nwhich he had come. But following the greener light, he reached the cave,\nand soon, with a sigh of relief, was upon the sun-sweet warm earth\nagain.\n\nHow more than ever beautiful the world seemed! how sweet to the eyes\nwere upland and cliff, the wide stretch of ocean, the flying birds, the\nsheep grazing on the scanty pastures, and, above all, the homely blue\nsmoke curling faintly upward from the fisher crofts on the headland east\nof Aonaig!\n\nPurposely he retraced his steps by the way of the glen: he would see the\nwoman Morag MacNeill again, and insist on some more explicit word. But\nwhen he reached the burnside once more, the woman was not there.\nPossibly she had seen him coming, and guessed his purpose; half he\nsurmised this, for the peats in the hearth were brightly aglow, and on\nthe hob beside them the boiling water hissed in a great iron pot wherein\nwere potatoes. In vain he sought, in vain called. Impatient, he walked\naround the bothie and into the little byre beyond. The place was\ndeserted. This, small matter as it was, added to his disquietude.\nResolved to sift the mystery, he walked swiftly down the slope. By the\nold shealing of Cnoc-na-Monie, now forsaken, his heart leaped at sight\nof Ian coming to meet him.\n\nWhen they met, Alan put his hands lovingly on the old man's shoulders,\nand looked at him with questioning eyes. He found rest and hope in those\ndeep pools of quiet light, whence the faithful love rose comfortingly to\nmeet his own yearning gaze.\n\n\"What is it, Alan-mo-ghray; what is the trouble that is upon you?\"\n\n\"It is a trouble, Ian, but one of which I can speak little, for it is\nlittle I know.\"\n\n\"Now, now, for sure you must tell me what it is.\"\n\n\"I have seen a man here upon Rona whom I have not seen or met before,\nand it is one whose face is known to me, and whose voice too, and one\nwhom I would not meet again.\"\n\n\"Did he give you no name?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"Where did he come from? Where did he go to?\"\n\n\"He came out of the shadow, and into the shadow he went.\"\n\nIan looked steadfastly at Alan, his wistful gaze searching deep into his\nunquiet eyes, and thence from feature to feature of the face which had\nbecome strangely worn of late.\n\nBut he questioned no further.\n\n\"I, too, Alan MacAilean, have heard a strange thing to-day. You know old\nMarsail Macrae? She is ill now with a slow fever, and she thinks that\nthe shadow which she saw lying upon her hearth last Sabbath, when\nnothing was there to cause any shadow, was her own death, come for her,\nand now waiting there. I spoke to the old woman, but she would not have\npeace, and her eyes looked at me.\n\n\"'What will it be now, Marsail?' I asked.\n\n\"'Ay, ay, for sure,' she said, 'it was I who saw you first.'\n\n\"'Saw me first, Marsail?'\n\n\"'Ay, you and Alan MacAilean.'\n\n\"'When and where was this sight upon you?'\n\n\"'It was one month before you and he came to Rona.'\n\n\"I asked the poor old woman to be telling me her meaning. At first I\ncould make little of what was said, for she muttered low, and moved her\nhead this way and that, and moaned like a stricken ewe. But on my taking\nher hand, she looked at me again, and then told me this thing--\n\n\"'On the seventh day of the month before you came--and by the same token\nit was on the seventh day of the month following that you and Alan\nMcAilean came to Caisteal-Rhona--I was upon the shore at Aonaig,\nlistening to the crying of the wind against the great cliff of\nBiola-creag. With me were Ruaridh Macrae and Neil MacNeill, Morag\nMacNeill, and her sister Elsa; and we were singing the hymn for those\nwho were out on the wild sea that was roaring white against the cliffs\nof Berneray, for some of our people were there, and we feared for them.\nSometimes one sang, and sometimes another. And sure, it is remembering I\nam, how, when I had called out with my old wailing voice--\n\n    \"'Bi 'eadh an Tri-aon leinn, a la's a dh-oidche;\n    'S air chul nan tonn, A Mhoire ghradhach!\n\n    (Be the Three-in-One with us day and night;\n    And on the crested wave, O Mary Beloved!)\n\n\"'Now when I had just sung this, and we were all listening to the sound\nof it caught by the wind and blown up against the black face of\nBiola-creag, I saw a boat come sailing into the haven. I called out to\nthose about me, but they looked at me with white faces, for no boat was\nthere, and it was a rough, wild sea it was in that haven.\n\n\"'And in that boat I saw three people sitting; and one was you, Ian\nMacIain, and one was a man who had his face in shadow, and his eyes\nlooked into the shadow at his feet. I saw you clear, and told those\nabout me what I saw.' And Seumas MacNeill, him that is dead now, and\nbrother to Neil here at Aonaig, he said to me, 'Who was that whom you\nsaw walking in the dusk the night before last?'--'Ailean MacAlasdair\nCarmichael,' answered one at that. Seumas muttered, looking at those,\nabout him, 'Mark what I say, for it is a true thing--that Ailean\nCarmichael of Rona is dead now, because Marsail saw him walking in the\ndusk when he was not upon the island; and now, you Neil, and you Rory,\nand all of you, will be for thinking with me that one of the men in the\nboat whom Marsail sees now will be the son of him who has changed.'\n\n\"Well, well, it is a true thing that we each of us thought that thought,\nbut when the days went and nothing more came of it, the memory of the\nseeing went too. Then there came the day when the coble of Aulay\nMacAulay came out of Borosay into Caisteal-Rhona haven. Glad we were to\nsee your face again, Ian McIain, and to hear the sob of joy coming out\nof the heart of Giorsal your sister; but when you and Alan MacAilean\ncame on shore, it was my voice that then went from mouth to mouth, for\nI whispered to Morag MacNeill who was next me that you were the men I\nhad seen in the boat.'\n\n\"Well, after that,\" Ian added, with a grave smile, \"I spoke gently to\nold Marsail, and told her that there was no evil in that seeing, and\nthat for sure it was nothing at all, at all, to see two people in a\nboat, and nothing coming of that, save happiness for those two, and glad\ncontent to be here.\n\n\"Marsail looked at me with big eyes.\n\n\"But when I asked her what she meant by that, she would say no more. No\nasking of mine would bring the word to her lips, only she shook her head\nand kept her gaze from my face. Then, seeing that it was useless, I said\nto her--\n\n\"'Marsail, tell me this: Was this sight of yours the sole thing that\nmade the people here on Rona look askance at Alan MacAilean?'\n\n\"For a time she stared at me with dim eyes, then suddenly she spoke--\n\n\"'It is not all.'\n\n\"'Then what more is there, Marsail Macrae?'\n\n\"'That is not for the saying. I have no more to say. Let you, or Alan\nMacAilean, go elsewhere. That which is to be, will be. To each his own\nend.'\n\n\"'Then be telling me this now at least,' I asked: 'is there danger for\nhim or me in this island?'\n\n\"But the poor old woman would say no more, and then I saw a swoon was on\nher.\"\n\nAfter this, Alan and Ian walked slowly home together, both silent, and\neach revolving in his mind as in a dim dusk that mystery which, vague\nand unreal at first, had now become a living presence, and haunted them\nby day and night.\n\n\nIV\n\n\"In the shadow of pain, one may hear the footsteps of joy.\" So runs a\nproverb of old.\n\nIt was a true saying for Alan. That night he lay down in pain, his heart\nheavy with the weight of a mysterious burden. On the morrow he woke\nblithely to a new day--a day of absolute beauty. The whole wide\nwilderness of ocean was of living azure, aflame with gold and silver.\nAround the promontories of the isles the brown-sailed fishing-boats of\nBarra and Berneray, of Borosay and Seila, moved blithely hither and\nthither. Everywhere the rhythm of life pulsed swift and strong. The\nfirst sound which had awakened Alan was of a loud singing of fishermen\nwho were putting out from Aonaig. The coming of a great shoal of\nmackerel had been signalled, and every man and woman of the near isles\nwas alert for the take. The watchers had known it by the swift\ncongregation of birds, particularly the gannets and skuas. And as the\nmen pulled at the oars, or hoisted the brown sails, they sang a snatch\nof an old-world tune, still chanted at the first coming of the birds\nwhen spring-tide is on the flow again--\n\n    \"Bui' cheas dha 'n Ti thaine na Gugachan\n    Thaine's na h-Eoin-Mhora cuideriu,\n    Cailin dugh ciaru bo's a chro!\n    Bo dhonn! bo dhonn! bo dhonn bheadarrach!\n    Bo dhonn a ruin a bhlitheadh am baine dhuit\n    Ho ro! mo gheallag! ni gu rodagach!\n    Cailin dugh ciaru bo's a chro--\n    Na h-eoin air tighinn! cluinneam an ceol!\"\n\n    (Thanks to the Being, the Gannets have come,\n    Yes! and the Great Auks along with them.\n    Dark-haired girl!--a cow in the fold!\n    Brown cow! brown cow! brown cow, beloved ho!\n    Brown cow! my love! the milker of milk to thee!\n    Ho ro! my fair-skinned girl--a cow, in the fold,\n    And the birds have come!--glad sight, I see!)\n\nEager to be of help, Ian put off in his boat, and was soon among the\nfishermen, who in their new excitement were forgetful of all else than\nthat the mackerel were come, and that every moment was precious. For the\nfirst time Ian found himself no unwelcome comrade. Was it, he wondered,\nbecause that, there upon the sea, whatever of shadow dwelled about him,\nor rather about Alan MacAilean, on the land, was no longer visible.\n\nAll through that golden noon he and the others worked hard. From isle to\nisle went the chorus of the splashing oars and splashing nets; of the\nsplashing of the fish and the splashing of gannets and gulls; of the\nsplashing of the tide leaping blithely against the sun-dazzle, and the\nillimitable rippling splash moving out of the west;--all this blent with\nthe loud, joyous cries, the laughter, and the hoarse shouts of the men\nof Barra and the adjacent islands. It was close upon dusk before the\nRona boats put into the haven of Aonaig again; and by that time none was\nblither than Ian MacIain, who in that day of happy toil had lost all the\ngloom and apprehension of the day before, and now returned to\nCaisteal-Rhona with lighter heart than he had known for long.\n\nWhen, however, he got there, there was no sign of Alan. He had gone,\nsaid Giorsal, he had gone out in the smaller boat midway in the\nafternoon, and had sailed around to Aoidhu, the great scaur which ran\nout beyond the precipices at the south-west of Rona.\n\nThis Alan often did, and of late more and more often. Ever since he had\ncome to the Hebrid Isles his love of the sea had deepened and had grown\ninto a passion for its mystery and beauty. Of late, too, something\nimpelled to a more frequent isolation, a deep longing to be where no eye\ncould see and no ear hearken.\n\nSo at first Ian was in no way alarmed. But when the sun had set, and\nover the faint blue film of the Isle of Tiree the moon had risen, and\nstill no sign of Alan, he became restless and uneasy. Giorsal begged him\nin vain to eat of the supper she had prepared. Idly he moved to and fro\nalong the rocky ledge, or down by the pebbly shore, or across the green\n_airidh_, eager for a glimpse of him whom he loved so well.\n\nAt last, unable longer to endure a growing anxiety, he put out in his\nboat, and sailed swiftly before the slight easterly breeze which had\nprevailed since moonrise. So far as Aoidhu, all the way from Aonaig,\nthere was not a haven anywhere, nor even one of the sea caverns which\nhoneycombed the isle beyond the headland. A glance, therefore, showed\nhim that Alan had not yet come back that way. It was possible, though\nunlikely, that he had sailed right round Rona; unlikely, because in the\nnarrow straits to the north, between Rona and the scattered islets known\nas the Innsemhara, strong currents prevailed, and particularly at the\nfull of the tide, when they swept north-eastward dark and swift as a\nmill-race.\n\nOnce the headland was passed and the sheer precipitous westward cliffs\nloomed black out of the sea, he became more and more uneasy. As yet,\nthere was no danger; but he saw that a swell was moving out of the west;\nand whenever the wind blew that way, the sea-arcades were filled with a\nlifting, perilous wave. Later, escape might be difficult, and often\nimpossible. Out of the score or more great passages which opened between\nAoidhu and Ardgorm, it was difficult to know into which to chance the\nsearch of Alan. Together they had examined all of them. Some twisted but\nslightly; others wound sinuously till the green, serpentine alleys,\nflanked by basalt walls hundreds of feet high, lost themselves in an\nindistinguishable maze.\n\nBut that which was safest, and wherein a boat could most easily make its\nway against wind or tide, was the huge, cavernous passage known locally\nas the Uaimh-nan-roin, the Cave of the Seals.\n\nFor this opening Ian steered his boat. Soon he was within the wide\ncorridor. Like the great cave at Staffa, it was wrought as an aisle in\nsome natural cathedral; the rocks, too, were columnar, and rose in\nflawless symmetry, as though graven by the hand of man. At the far end\nof this gigantic aisle, there diverges a long, narrow arcade, filled by\nday with the green shine of the water, and by night, when the moon is\nup, with a pale froth of light. It is one of the few where there are\nopen gateways for the sea and the wandering light, and by its spherical\nshape almost the only safe passage in a season of heavy wind. Half-way\nalong this arched arcade a corridor leads to a round cup-like cavern,\nmidway in which stands a huge mass of black basalt, in shape suggestive\nof a titanic altar. Thus it must have impressed the imagination of the\nislanders of old; for by them, even in a remote day, it was called\nTeampull-Mara, the Temple of the Sea. Owing to the narrowness of the\npassage, and to the smooth, unbroken walls which rise sheer from the\ngreen depths into an invisible darkness, the Strait of the Temple is not\none wherein to linger long, save in a time of calm.\n\nInstinctively, however, Ian quietly headed his boat along this narrow\nway. When, silently, he emerged from the arcade, he could just discern\nthe mass of basalt at the far end of the cavern. But there, seated in\nhis boat, was Alan, apparently idly adrift, for one oar floated in the\nwater alongside, and the other swung listlessly from the tholes.\n\nHis heart had a suffocating grip as he saw him whom he had come to seek.\nWhy that absolute stillness, that strange, listless indifference? For a\ndreadful moment he feared death had indeed come to him in that lonely\nplace where, as an ancient legend had it, a woman of old time had\nperished, and ever since had wrought death upon any who came thither\nsolitary and unhappy.\n\nBut at the striking of the shaft of his oar against a ledge, Alan moved,\nand looked at him with startled eyes. Half rising from where he crouched\nin the stern, he called to him in a voice that had in it something\nstrangely unfamiliar.\n\n\"I will not hear!\" he cried. \"I will not hear! Leave me! Leave me!\"\n\nFearing that the desolation of the place had wrought upon his mind, Ian\nswiftly moved toward him, and the next moment his boat glided alongside.\nStepping from the one to the other, he kneeled beside him.\n\n\"_Ailean mo caraid, Ailean-aghray_, what is it? What gives you dread?\nThere is no harm here. All is well. Look! See, it is I, Ian--old Ian\nMacIain! Listen, _mo ghaoil_; do you not know me--do you not know who I\nam? It is I, Ian; Ian who loves you!\"\n\nEven in that obscure light he could clearly discern the pale face, and\nhis heart smote him as he saw Alan's eyes turn upon him with a glance\nwild and mournful. Had he indeed succumbed to the sea madness which ever\nand again strikes into a terrible melancholy one here and there among\nthose who dwell in the remote isles? But even as he looked, he noted\nanother expression come into the wild strained eyes; and almost before\nhe realised what had happened, Alan was on his feet and pointing with\nrigid arm.\n\nFor there, in that nigh unreachable and for ever unvisited solitude, was\nthe figure of a man. He stood on the summit of the huge basalt altar,\nand appeared to have sprung from out the rock, or, himself a shadowy\npresence, to have grown out of the obscure unrealities of the darkness.\nIan stared, fascinated, speechless.\n\nThen with a spring he was on the ledge. Swift and sure as a wild cat, he\nscaled the huge mass of the altar.\n\nNothing; no one! There was not a trace of any human being. Not a bird,\nnot a bat; nothing. Moreover, even in that slowly blackening darkness,\nhe could see that there was no direct connection between the summit or\nside with the blank, precipitous wall of basalt beyond. Overhead there\nwas, so far as he could discern, a vault. No human being could have\ndescended through that perilous gulf.\n\nWas the island haunted? he wondered, as slowly he made his way back to\nthe boat. Or had he been startled by some wild fantasy, and imagined a\nlikeness where none had been? Perhaps even he had not really seen any\none. He had heard of such things. The nerves can soon chase the mind\ninto the shadow wherein it loses itself.\n\nOr was Alan the vain dreamer? That, indeed, might well be. Mayhap he had\nheard some fantastic tale from Morag MacNeill, or from old Marsail\nMacrae; the islanders had _sgeul_ after _sgeul_ of a wild strangeness.\n\nIn silence he guided the boats back into the outer arcade, where a faint\nsheen of moonlight glistened on the water. Thence, in a few minutes, he\noared that wherein he and Alan sat, with the other fastened astern, into\nthe open.\n\nWhen the moonshine lay full on Alan's face, Ian saw that he was thinking\nneither of himself nor of where he was. His eyes were heavy with dream.\n\nWhat wind there was blew against their course, so Ian rowed unceasingly.\nIn silence they passed once again the headland of Aoidhu; in silence\nthey drifted past a single light gleaming in a croft near Aonaig--a red\neye staring out into the shadow of the sea, from the room where the\nwoman Marsail lay dying; and in silence their keels grided on the patch\nof shingle in Caisteal-Rhona haven.\n\n\nFor days thereafter Alan haunted that rocky, cavernous wilderness where\nhe had seen the Herdsman.\n\nIt was in vain he had sought everywhere for some tidings of this\nmysterious dweller in those upland solitudes. At times he believed that\nthere was indeed some one upon the island of whom, for inexplicable\nreasons, none there would speak; but at last he came to the conviction\nthat what he had seen was an apparition, projected by the fantasy of\noverwrought nerves. Even from the woman Morag MacNeill, to whom he had\ngone with a frank appeal that won its way to her heart, he learned no\nmore than that an old legend, of which she did not care to speak, was in\nsome way associated with his own coming to Rona.\n\nIan, too, never once alluded to the mysterious incident of the green\narcades which had so deeply impressed them both: never after Alan had\ntold him that he had seen a vision.\n\nBut as the days passed, and as no word came to either of any unknown\nperson who was on the island, and as Alan, for all his patient wandering\nand furtive quest, both among the upland caves and in the green arcades,\nfound absolutely no traces of him whom he sought, the belief that he had\nbeen duped by his imagination deepened almost to conviction.\n\nAs for Ian, he, unlike Alan, became more and more convinced that what he\nhad seen was indeed no apparition. Whatever lingering doubt he had was\ndissipated on the eve of the night when old Marsail Macrae died. It was\ndusk when word came to Caisteal-Rhona that Marsail felt the cold wind\non the soles of her feet. Ian went to her at once, and it was in the\ndark hour which followed that he heard once more, and more fully, the\nstrange story which, like a poisonous weed, had taken root in the minds\nof the islanders. Already from Marsail he had heard of the Prophet,\nthough, strangely enough, he had never breathed word of this to Alan,\nnot even when, after the startling episode of the apparition in the\nTeampull-Mara, he had, as he believed, seen the Prophet himself. But\nthere in the darkness of the low, turfed cottage, with no light in the\nroom save the dull red gloom from the heart of the smoored peats,\nMarsail, in the attenuated, remote voice of those who have already\nentered into the vale of the shadow, told him this thing, in the\nhomelier Gaelic--\n\n\"Yes, Ian mac Iain-Ban, I will be telling you this thing before I\nchange. You are for knowing, sure, that long ago Uilleam, brother of him\nwho was father to the lad up at the castle yonder, had a son? Yes, you\nknow that, you say, and also that he was called Donnacha Ban? No,\nmo-caraid, that is not a true thing that you have heard, that Donnacha\nBan went under the waves years ago. He was the seventh son, an' was born\nunder the full moon; 'tis Himself will be knowing whether that was for\nor against him. Of these seven none lived beyond childhood except the\ntwo youngest, Kenneth an' Donnacha. Kenneth was always frail as a\nFebruary flower, but he lived to be a man. He an' his brother never\nspoke, for a feud was between them, not only because that each was\nunlike the other, an' the younger hated the older because through him he\nwas the penniless one, but most because both loved the same woman. I am\nnot for telling you the whole story now, for the breath in my body will\nsoon blow out in the draught that is coming upon me; but this I will say\nto you: darker and darker grew the gloom between these brothers. When\nGiorsal Macdonald gave her love to Kenneth, Donnacha disappeared for a\ntime. Then, one day, he came back to Borosay, an' smiled quietly with\nhis cold eyes when they wondered at his coming again. Now, too, it was\nnoticed that he no longer had an ill-will upon his brother, but spoke\nsmoothly with him an' loved to be in his company. But to this day no one\nknows for sure what happened. For there was a gloaming when Donnacha Ban\ncame back alone in his sailing-boat. He an' Kenneth had sailed forth, he\nsaid, to shoot seals in the sea-arcades to the west of Rona, but in\nthese dark and lonely passages they had missed each other. At last he\nhad heard Kenneth's voice calling for help, but when he had got to the\nplace it was too late, for his brother had been seized with the cramps,\nan' had sunk deep into the fathomless water. There is no getting a body\nagain that sinks in these sea-galleries. The crabs know that.\n\n\"Well, this and much more was what Donnacha Ban told to his people. None\nbelieved him; but what could any do? There was no proof; none had ever\nseen them enter the sea-caves together. Not that Donnacha Ban sought in\nany way to keep back those who would fain know more. Not so; he strove\nto help to find the body. Nevertheless, none believed; an' Giorsal nic\nDugall Mor least of all. The blight of that sorrow went to her heart.\nShe had death soon, poor thing! but before the cold greyness was upon\nher she told her father, an' the minister that was there, that she knew\nDonnacha Ban had murdered his brother. One might be saying these were\nthe wild words of a woman; but, for sure, no one said that thing upon\nBorosay or Rona, or any of these isles. When all was done, the minister\ntold what he knew, an' what he thought, to the Lord of the South Isles,\nand asked what was to be put upon Donnacha Ban. 'Exile for ever,' said\nthe chief, 'or if he stays here, the doom of silence. Let no man or\nwoman speak to him or give him food or drink, or give him shelter, or\nlet his shadow cross his or hers.'\n\n\"When this thing was told to Donnacha Ban Carmichael, he laughed at\nfirst; but as day after day slid over the rocks where all days fall, he\nlaughed no more. Soon he saw that the chief's word was no empty word;\nan' yet would not go away from his own place. He could not stay upon\nBorosay, for his father cursed him; an' no man can stay upon the island\nwhere a father's curse moves this way an' that, for ever seeing him.\nThen, some say a madness came upon him, and others that he took wildness\nto be his way, and others that God put upon him the shadow of\nloneliness, so that he might meet sorrow there and repent. Howsoever\nthat may be, Donnacha Ban came to Rona, an' by the same token, it was\nthe year of the great blight, when the potatoes and the corn came to\nnaught, an' when the fish in the sea swam away from the isles. In the\nautumn of that year there was not a soul left on Rona except Giorsal an'\nthe old man Ian, her father, who had guard of Caisteal-Rhona for him who\nwas absent. When, once more, years after, smoke rose from the crofts,\nthe saying spread that Donnacha Ban, the murderer, had made his home\namong the caves of the upper part of the isle. None knew how this saying\nrose, for he was seen of none. The last man who saw him--an' that was a\nyear later--was old Padruig M'Vurich the shepherd. Padruig said that, as\nhe was driving his ewes across the north slope of Ben Einaval in the\ngloaming, he came upon a silent figure seated upon a rock, with his chin\nin his hands, an' his elbows on his knees--with the great, sad eyes of\nhim staring at the moon that was lifting itself out of the sea. Padruig\ndid not know who the man was. The shepherd had few wits, poor man! and\nhe had known, or remembered, little about the story of Donnacha Ban\nCarmichael; so when he spoke to the man, it was as to a stranger. The\nman looked at him and said--\n\n\"'You are Padruig M'Vurich, the shepherd.'\n\n\"At that a trembling was upon old Padruig, who had the wonder that this\nstranger should know who and what he was.\n\n\"'And who will you be, and forgive the saying?' he asked.\n\n\"'_Am Faidh_--the Prophet,' the man said.\n\n\"'And what prophet will you be, and what is your prophecy?' asked\nPadruig.\n\n\"'I am here because I wait for what is to be, and that will be the\ncoming of the Woman who is the Daughter of God.'\n\n\"And with that the man said no more, an' the old shepherd went down\nthrough the gloaming, an', heavy with the thoughts that troubled him,\nfollowed his ewes down into Aonaig. But after that neither he nor any\nother saw or heard tell of the shadowy stranger; so that all upon Rona\nfelt sure that Padruig had beheld no more than a vision. There were some\nwho thought that he had seen the ghost of the outlaw Donnacha Ban; an'\nmayhap one or two who wondered if the stranger that had said he was a\nprophet was not Donnacha Ban himself, with a madness come upon him; but\nat last these sayings went out to sea upon the wind, an' men forgot.\nBut, an' it was months and months afterwards, an' three days before his\nown death, old Padruig M'Vurich was sitting in the sunset on the rocky\nledge in front of his brother's croft, where then he was staying, when\nhe heard a strange crying of seals. He thought little of that; only,\nwhen he looked closer, he saw, in the hollow of the wave hard by that\nledge, a drifting body.\n\n\"'_Am Faidh--Am Faidh!_' he cried; 'the Prophet, the Prophet!'\n\n\"At that his brother an' his brother's wife ran to see; but it was\nnothing that they saw. 'It would be a seal,' said Pol M'Vurich; but at\nthat Padruig had shook his head, an' said no for sure, he had seen the\nface of the dead man, an' it was of him whom he had met on the hillside,\nan' that had said he was the Prophet who was waiting there for the\nsecond coming of God.\n\n\"And that is how there came about the echo of the thought that Donnacha\nBan had at last, after his madness, gone under the green wave and was\ndead. For all that, in the months which followed, more than one man said\nhe had seen a figure high up on the hill. The old wisdom says that when\nGod comes again, or the prophet who will come before, it will be as a\nherdsman on a lonely isle. More than one of the old people on Rona and\nBorosay remembered that _sgeul_ out of the _Seanachas_ that the\ntale-tellers knew. There were some who said that Donnacha Ban had never\nbeen drowned at all, an' that he was this Prophet, this Herdsman. Others\nwould not have that saying at all, but believed that the wraith was\nindeed Am Buachaill Ban, the Fair-haired Shepherd, who had come again\nto redeem the people out of their sorrow. There were even those who said\nthat the Herdsman who haunted Rona was no other than Kenneth Carmichael\nhimself, who had not died but had had the mind-dark there in the\nsea-caves where he had been lost, an' there had come to the knowledge of\nsecret things, and so was at last Am Faidh Chriosd.\"\n\n\nA great weakness came upon the old woman when she had spoken thus far.\nIan feared that she would have breath for no further word; but after a\nthin gasping, and a listless fluttering of weak hands upon the coverlet,\nwhereon her trembling fingers plucked aimlessly at the invisible\nblossoms of death, she opened her eyes once more, and stared in a dim\nquestioning at him who sat by her bedside.\n\n\"Tell me,\" whispered Ian, \"tell me Marsail, what thought it is that is\nin your own mind?\"\n\nBut already the old woman had begun to wander.\n\n\"For sure, for sure,\" she muttered, \"_Am Faidh ... Am Faidh_ ... an' a\nchild will be born ... the Queen of Heaven, an' ... that will be the\nvoice of Domhuill, my husband, I am hearing ... an' dark it is, an' the\ntide comin' in ... an'----\"\n\nThen, sure, the tide came in, and if in that darkness old Marsail Macrae\nheard any voice at all, it was that of Domhuill who years agone had sunk\ninto the wild seas off the head of Barra.\n\nAn hour later Alan walked slowly under the cloudy night. All he had\nheard from Ian came back to him with a strange familiarity. Something of\nthis, at least, he had known before. Some hints of this mysterious\nHerdsman had reached his ears. In some inexplicable way his real or\nimaginary presence there upon Rona seemed a pre-ordained thing for him.\n\nHe knew that the wild imaginings of the islanders had woven the legend\nof the Prophet, or of his mysterious message, out of the loom of the\ndeep longing whereon is woven that larger tapestry, the shadow-thridden\nlife of the island Gael. Laughter and tears, ordinary hopes and\npleasures, and even joy itself, and bright gaiety, and the swift,\nspontaneous imaginations of susceptible natures--all this, of course, is\nto be found with the island Gael as with his fellows elsewhere. But\nevery here and there are some who have in their minds the inheritance\nfrom the dim past of their race, and are oppressed as no other people\nare oppressed by the gloom of a strife between spiritual emotion and\nmaterial facts. It is the brains of dreamers such as these which clear\nthe mental life of the community; and it is in these brains are the\nmysterious looms which weave the tragic and sorrowful tapestries of\nCeltic thought. It were a madness to suppose that life in the isles\nconsists of nothing but sadness and melancholy. It is not so, or need\nnot be so, for the Gael is a creature of shadow and shine. But whatever\nthe people is, the brain of the Gael hears a music that is sadder than\nany music there is, and has for its cloudy sky a gloom that shall not\ngo; for the end is near, and upon the westernmost shores of these remote\nisles the voice of Celtic sorrow may be heard crying, \"_Cha till, cha\ntill, cha till mi tuille_\": \"I will return, I will return, I will return\nno more.\"\n\nAlan knew all this well; and yet he too dreamed his dream--that, even\nyet, there might be redemption for the people. He did not share the wild\nhope which some of the older islanders held, that Christ Himself shall\ncome again to redeem an oppressed race; but might not another saviour\narise, another redeeming spirit come into the world? And if so, might\nnot that child of joy be born out of suffering and sorrow and crime; and\nif so, might not the Herdsman be indeed a prophet, the Prophet of the\nWoman in whom God should come anew as foretold?\n\nWith startled eyes he crossed the thyme-set ledge whereon stood\nCaisteal-Rhona. Was it, after all, a message he had received, and was\nthat which had appeared to him in that lonely cavern of the sea but a\nphantom of his own destiny? Was he himself, Alan Carmichael, indeed _Am\nFaidh_, the predestined Prophet of the isles?\n\n\nV\n\nEver since the night of Marsail's death, Ian had noticed that Alan no\nlonger doubted, but that in some way a special message had come to him,\na special revelation. On the other hand, he had himself swung further\ninto his conviction that the vision he had seen in the cavern was, in\ntruth, that of a living man. On Borosay, he knew, the fishermen believed\nthat the _aonaran nan creag_, the recluse of the rocks, as commonly they\nspoke of him, was no other than Donnacha Ban Carmichael, survived there\nthrough these many years, and long since mad with his loneliness and\nbecause of the burden of his crime.\n\nBut by this time the islanders had come to see that Alan MacAilean was\ncertainly not Donnacha Ban. Even the startling likeness no longer\nbetrayed them in this way. The ministers and the priests on Berneray and\nBarra scoffed at the whole story, and everywhere discouraged the idea\nthat Donnacha Ban could still be among the living. But for the common\nbelief that to encounter the Herdsman, whether the lost soul of Donnacha\nBan or indeed the strange phantom of the hills of which the old legends\nspoke, was to meet inevitable disaster, the islanders might have been\npersuaded to make such a search among the caves of Rona as would almost\ncertainly have revealed the presence of any who dwelt therein.\n\nBut as summer lapsed into autumn, and autumn itself through its golden\nsilences waned into the shadow of the equinox, a strange, brooding\nserenity came upon Alan. Ian himself now doubted his own vision of the\nmysterious Herdsman--if he indeed existed at all except in the\nimaginations of those who spoke of him either as the Buachaill Ban, or\nas the _aonaran nan creag_. If a real man, Ian believed that at last he\nhad passed away. None saw the Herdsman now; and even Morag MacNeill, who\nhad often on moonlight nights been startled by the sound of a voice\nchanting among the upper solitudes, admitted that she now heard nothing\nunusual.\n\nSt. Martin's summer came at last, and with it all that wonderful,\ndreamlike beauty which bathes the isles in a flood of golden light, and\ndraws over sea and land a veil of deeper mystery.\n\nOne late afternoon, Ian, returning to Caisteal-Rhona after an\nunexplained absence of several hours, found Alan sitting at a table.\nSpread before him were the sheets of one of the strange old Gaelic tales\nwhich he had ardently begun to translate. Alan lifted and slowly read\nthe page or paraphrase which he had just laid down. It was after the\nhomelier Gaelic of the _Eachdaireachd Challum mhic Cruimein_.\n\n\"And when that king had come to the island, he lived there in the shadow\nof men's eyes; for none saw him by day or by night, and none knew whence\nhe came or whither he fared; for his feet were shod with silence, and\nhis way with dusk. But men knew that he was there, and all feared him.\nMonths, even years, tramped one on the heels of the other, and perhaps\nthe king gave no sign, but one day he would give a sign; and that sign\nwas a laughing that was heard somewhere, upon the lonely hills, or on\nthe lonely wave, or in the heart of him who heard. And whenever the king\nlaughed, he who heard would fare ere long from his fellows to join that\nking in the shadow. But sometimes the king laughed only because of vain\nhopes and wild imaginings, for upon these he lives as well as upon the\nstrange savours of mortality.\"\n\nThat night Alan awakened Ian suddenly, and taking him by the hand made\nhim promise to go with him on the morrow to the Teampull-Mara.\n\nIn vain Ian questioned him as to why he asked this thing. All Alan would\nsay was that he must go there once again, and with him, for he believed\nthat a spirit out of heaven had come to reveal to him a wonder.\nDistressed by what he knew to be a madness, and fearful that it might\nprove to be no passing fantasy, Ian would fain have persuaded him\nagainst this intention. Even as he spoke, however, he realised that it\nmight be better to accede to his wishes, and, above all, to be there\nwith him, so that it might not be one only who heard or saw the expected\nrevelation.\n\nAnd it was a strange faring indeed, that which occurred on the morrow.\nAt noon, when the tide was an hour turned in the ebb, they sailed\nwestward from Caisteal-Rhona. It was in silence they made that strange\njourney together; for, while Ian steered, Alan lay down in the hollow of\nthe boat, with his head against the old man's knees, and slept, or at\nleast lay still with his eyes closed.\n\nWhen at last they passed the headland and entered the first of the\nsea-arcades, Alan rose and sat beside him. Hauling down the now useless\nsail, Ian took an oar and, standing at the prow, urged the boat inward\nalong the narrow corridor which led to the huge sea-cave of the Altar.\n\nIn the deep gloom--for even on that day of golden light and beauty the\ngreen air of the sea-cave was heavy with shadow--there was a deathly\nchill. What dull light there was came from the sheen of the green water\nwhich lay motionless along the black basaltic ledges. When at last the\nbase of the Altar was reached, Ian secured the boat by a rope passed\naround a projecting spur, and then seated himself in the stern beside\nAlan.\n\n\"Tell me, Alan-a-ghaoil, what is this thing that you are thinking you\nwill hear or see?\"\n\nAlan looked at him strangely for a while, but, though his lips moved, he\nsaid nothing.\n\n\"Tell me, my heart,\" Ian urged again, \"who is it you expect to see or\nhear?\"\n\n\"_Am Buachaill Ban_,\" Alan answered, \"the Herdsman.\"\n\nFor a moment Ian hesitated. Then, taking Alan's hand in his and raising\nit to his lips, he whispered in his ear--\n\n\"There is no Herdsman upon Rona. If a man was there who lived solitary,\nthe _aonaran nan creag_ is dead long since. What you have seen and heard\nhas been a preying upon you of wild thoughts. Be thinking no more now of\nthis vision.\"\n\n\"This man,\" Alan answered quietly, \"is not Donnacha Ban, but the Prophet\nof whom the people speak. He himself has told me this thing. Yesterday I\nwas here, and he bade me come again. He spoke out of the shadow that is\nabout the Altar, though I saw him not. I asked him if he were Donnacha\nBan, and he said 'No.' I asked him if he were _Am Faidh_, and he said\n'Yes.' I asked him if he were indeed an immortal spirit and herald of\nthat which was to be, and he said 'Even so.'\"\n\nFor a long while after this no word was spoken. The chill of that remote\nplace began to affect Alan, and he shivered slightly at times. But more\nhe shivered because of the silence, and because that he who had promised\nto be there gave no sign. Sure, he thought, it could not be all a\ndream; sure, the Herdsman would come again.\n\nThen at last, turning to Ian, he said, \"We must come on the morrow, for\nto-day he is not here.\"\n\n\"I will do what you ask, Alan-mo-ghaol.\"\n\nBut of a sudden Alan stepped on the black ledges at the base of the\nAltar, and slowly mounted the precipitous rock.\n\nIan watched him till he became a shadow in that darkness. His heart\nleaped when suddenly he heard a cry fall out of the gloom.\n\n\"Alan, Alan!\" he cried, and a great fear was upon him when no answer\ncame; but at last he heard him clambering slowly down the perilous slope\nof that obscure place. When he reached the ledge Alan stood still\nregarding him.\n\n\"Why do you not come into the boat?\" Ian asked, terrified because of\nwhat he saw in Alan's eyes.\n\nAlan looked at him with parted lips, his breath coming and going like\nthat of a caged bird.\n\n\"What is it?\" Ian whispered.\n\n\"Ian, when I reached the top of the Altar, and in the dim light that was\nthere, I saw the dead body of a man lying upon the rock. His head was\nlain back so that the gleam from a crevice in the cliff overhead fell\nupon it. The man had been dead many hours. He is a man whose hair has\nbeen greyed by years and sorrow, but the man is he who is of my blood;\nhe whom I resemble so closely; he that the fishermen call the hermit of\nthe rocks; he that is the Herdsman.\"\n\nIan stared, with moving lips: then in a whisper he spoke--\n\n\"Would you be for following a herdsman who could lead you to no fold?\nThis man is dead, Alan mac Alasdair; and it is well that you brought me\nhere to-day. That is a good thing, and for sure God has willed it.\"\n\n\"It is not a man that is dead. It is my soul that lies there. It is\ndead. God called me to be His Prophet, and I hid in dreams. It is the\nend.\" And with that, and death staring out of his eyes, he entered the\nboat and sat down beside Ian.\n\n\"Let us go,\" he said, and that was all.\n\nSlowly Ian oared the boat across the shadowy gulf of the cave, along the\nnarrow passage, and into the pale green gloom of the outer cavern,\nwherein the sound of the sea made a forlorn requiem in his ears.\n\nBut the short November day was already passing to its end. All the sea\nwestward was aflame with gold and crimson light, and in the great dome\nof the sky a wonderful radiance lifted above the paleness of the clouds,\nwhose pinnacled and bastioned heights towered in the south-west.\n\nA faint wind blew eastwardly. Raising the sail, Ian made it fast and\nthen sat down beside Alan. But he, rising, moved along the boat to the\nmast, and leaned there with his face against the setting sun.\n\nIdly they drifted onward. Deep silence lay between them; deep silence\nwas all about them, save for the ceaseless, inarticulate murmur of the\nsea, the splash of low waves against the rocks of Rona, and the sigh of\nthe surf at the base of the basalt precipices.\n\nAnd this was their homeward sailing on that day of revelation: Alan,\nwith his back against the mast, and his lifeless face irradiated by the\nlight of the setting sun; Ian, steering, with his face in shadow.\n\n  _Love in Shadow has two sacred ministers, Oblivion and Faith, one to\n  heal, the other to renovate and upbuild._--F. M.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[13] This hymn was taken down in the Gaelic and translated by Mr.\nAlexander Carmichael of South Uist.\n\n\n\n\nFRAGMENTS FROM \"GREEN FIRE\"\n\n\nTHE BIRDS OF ANGUS OG\n\n  \"_Then, in the violet forest all a-bourgeon, Eucharis, said to me:\n  It is Spring_.\"--ARTHUR RIMBAUD.\n\nAfter the dim purple bloom of a suspended Spring, a green rhythm ran\nfrom larch to thorn, from lime to sycamore: spread from meadow to\nmeadow, from copse to copse, from hedgerow to hedgerow. The blackthorn\nhad already snowed upon the nettle-garths. In the obvious nests, among\nthe bare boughs of ash and beech, the eggs of the blackbird were\nblue-green as the sky that March had bequeathed to April. For days past,\nwhen the breath of the Equinox had surged out of the west, the\nmissel-thrushes had bugled from the wind-swayed topmost branches of the\ntallest elms. Everywhere the green rhythm ran.\n\nIn every leaf that had uncurled there was a delicate bloom, that which\nis upon all things in the first hours of life. The spires of the grass\nwere washed in a green, dewy light. Out of the brown earth a myriad\nliving things thrust tiny green shafts, arrow-heads, bulbs, spheres,\nclusters. Along the pregnant soil keener ears than ours would have heard\nthe stir of new life, the innumerous whisper of the bursting seed: and,\nin the wind itself, shepherding the shadow-chased sunbeams, the voice of\nthat vernal gladness which has been man's clarion since Time began.\n\nDay by day the wind-wings lifted a more multitudinous whisper from the\nwoodlands. The deep hyperborean note, from the invisible ocean of air,\nwas still audible: within the concourse of bare boughs which wrought\nagainst it, that surging voice could not but have an echo of its wintry\nroar. In the sun-havens, however, along the southerly copses, in daisied\ngarths of orchard-trees, amid the flowering currant and guelder and\nlilac bushes, in quiet places where the hives were all a-murmur, the\nwind already sang its lilt of Spring. From dawn till noon, from an hour\nbefore sundown till the breaking foam along the wild-cherry flushed\nfugitively because of the crimson glow out of the west, there was a\nceaseless chittering of birds. The starlings and the sparrows enjoyed\nthe commune of the homestead; the larks and fieldfares and green and\nyellow linnets congregated in the meadows, where, too, the wild bee\nalready roved. Among the brown ridgy fallows there was a constant\nflutter of black, white-gleaming, and silver-grey wings, where the\nstalking rooks, the jerking peewits, and the wary, uncertain gulls from\nthe neighbouring sea feasted tirelessly from the teeming earth. Often,\ntoo, the wind-hover, that harbinger of the season of the young broods,\nquivered his curved wings in his arrested flight, while his lance-like\ngaze penetrated the whins beneath which a new-born rabbit crawled, or\ndiscerned in the tangle of a grassy tuft the brown watchful eyes of a\nnesting quail.\n\nIn the remoter woodlands the three foresters of April could be heard;\nthe woodpecker tapping on the gnarled boles of the oaks, the wild dove\ncalling in low crooning monotones to his silent mate, the cuckoo tolling\nhis infrequent peals from skiey belfries built of sun and mist.\n\nIn the fields, where the thorns were green as rivulets of melted snow\nand the grass had the bloom of emerald, and the leaves of docken,\nclover, cinquefoil, sorrel, and a thousand plants and flowers, were\nwave-green, the ewes lay, idly watching with their luminous amber eyes\nthe frisking and leaping of the close-curled, tuft-tailed, woolly-legged\nlambs. In corners of the hedgerows, and in hollows in the rolling\nmeadows, the primrose, the celandine, the buttercup, the dandelion, and\nthe daffodil spilled little eddies of the sunflood which overbrimmed\nthem with light. All day long the rapture of the larks filled the blue\nair with vanishing spirals of music, swift and passionate in the ascent,\nrepetitive and less piercing in the narrowing downward gyres. From every\nwhin the poignant monotonous note of the yellow hammer re-echoed. Each\npastoral hedge was alive with robins, chaffinches, and the dusky shadows\nof the wild mice darting here and there among the greening boughs.\n\nWhenever this green fire is come upon the earth, the swift contagion\nspreads to the human heart. What the seedlings feel in the trees, what\nthe blood feels in the brown mould, what the sap feels in every creature\nfrom the newt in the pool to the nesting bird, so feels the strange\nremembering ichor that runs its red tides through human hearts and\nbrains. Spring has its subtler magic for us, because of the dim\nmysteries of unremembering remembrance and of the vague radiances of\nhope. Something in us sings an ascendant song, and we expect we know not\nwhat: something in us sings a decrescent song, and we realise vaguely\nthe stirring of immemorial memories.\n\nThere is none who will admit that Spring is fairer elsewhere than in his\nown land. But there are regions where the season is so hauntingly\nbeautiful that it would seem as though Angus Og knew them for his chosen\nresting-places in his green journey.\n\nAngus Og, Angus MacGreigne, Angus the Ever Youthful, the Son of the Sun,\na fair god he indeed, golden-haired and wonderful as Apollo Chrusokumos.\nSome say that he is Love: some, that he is Spring: some, even, that in\nhim Thanatos, the Hellenic Celt that was his far-off kin, is\nreincarnate. But why seek riddles in flowing water? It may well be that\nAngus Og is Love, and Spring, and Death. The elemental gods are ever\ntriune: and in the human heart, in whose lost Eden an ancient tree of\nknowledge grows, wherefrom the mind has not yet gathered more than a few\nwindfalls, it is surely sooth that Death and Love are oftentimes one and\nthe same, and that they love to come to us in the apparel of Spring.\n\nSure, indeed, Angus Og is a name above all sweet to lovers, for is he\nnot the god--the fair Youth of the Tuatha-de-Danann, the Ancient People,\nwith us still, though for ages seen of us no more--from the meeting of\nwhose lips are born white birds, which fly abroad and nest in lovers'\nhearts till the moment come when, on the yearning lips of love, their\ninvisible wings shall become kisses again?\n\nThen, too, there is the old legend that Angus goes to and fro upon the\nworld, a weaver of rainbows. He follows the Spring, or is its herald.\nOften his rainbows are seen in the heavens: often in the rapt gaze of\nlove. We have all perceived them in the eyes of children, and some of us\nhave discerned them in the hearts of sorrowful women, and in the dim\nbrains of the old. Ah, for sure, if Angus Og be the lovely Weaver of\nHope, he is deathless comrade of the Spring, and we may well pray to him\nto let his green fire move in our veins; whether he be but the Eternal\nYouth of the World, or be also Love, whose soul is youth; or even though\nhe be likewise Death himself, Death to whom Love was wedded long, long\nago.\n\n\nII\n\nAlan was a poet, and to dream was his birthright.... He was ever\noccupied by that wonderful past of his race which was to him a living\nreality. It was perhaps because he so keenly perceived the romance of\nthe present--the romance of the general hour, of the individual\nmoment--that he turned so insatiably to the past with its deathless\ncharm, its haunting appeal.... His mind was as irresistibly drawn to the\nCeltic world of the past as the swallow to the sun-way. In a word he was\nnot only a poet but a Celtic poet; and not only a Celtic poet but a\ndreamer of the Celtic dream. Perhaps this was because of the double\nstrain in his veins. Doubtless, too, it was continuously enhanced by his\nintimate knowledge of two of the Celtic languages, that of the Breton\nand that of the Gael. It is language that is the surest stimulus to the\nremembering nerves. We have a memory within memory as layers of skin\nunderlie the epidermis. With most of us this anterior remembrance\nremains dormant throughout life: but to some are given swift ancestral\nrecollections. Alan was of these.\n\nWith this double key Alan unlocked many doors. In his brain ran ever\nthat Ossianic tide which has borne so many marvellous argosies through\nthe troubled waters of the modern mind. Old ballad of his nature isles,\nwith their haunting Gaelic rhythm of idioms, their frequent reminiscence\nof Norse viking and the Danish summer-sailor were often in his ears. He\nhad lived with his hero Cuchullin from the days when the boy shewed his\nroyal blood at Emain-Macha till that sad hour when his madness came upon\nhim and he died. He had fared forth with many a Lifting of the Sunbeam,\nand had followed Oisin step by step on that last melancholy journey when\nMalvina led the blind old man along the lonely shores of Arran. He had\nwatched the _crann-tara_ flare from glen to glen, and at the bidding of\nthat fiery cross he had seen the whirling of the swords, the dusky\nflight of arrow-rain, and from the isles, the leaping forth of the war\n_birlinns_ to meet the Viking galleys. How often, too, he had followed\ntrial of Niall of the nine Hostages and had seen the Irish Charlemagne\nride victor through Saxon London, or across the Norman plains or with\nonward sword direct his army against the white walls of the Alps!... It\nwas all this marvellous life of old which wrought upon Alan's life as by\na spell. Often he recalled the words of a Gaelic _Sean_ he had heard\nYann croon in his soft monotonous voice,--words which made a light\nshoreward eddy of the present and were solemn with the deep-sea sound of\nthe past, that is with us even as we speak....\n\nTruly his soul must have lived a thousand years ago. In him, at least,\nthe old Celtic brain was reborn with a vivid intensity which none\nguessed, for Alan himself only vaguely surmised the extent and depth of\nthis obsession. In heart and brain that old world lived anew. Himself a\npoet, all that was fair and tragically beautiful was for ever undergoing\nin his mind a marvellous transformation--a magical resurrection rather,\nwherein what was remote and bygone, and crowned with oblivious dust,\nbecame alive again with intense and beautiful life....\n\n\nDeep passion instinctively moves towards the shadow rather than towards\nthe golden noons of light. Passion hears what love at most dreams of;\npassion sees what love mayhap dimly discerns in a glass darkly. A\nmillion of our fellows are \"in love\" at any or every moment: and for\nthese the shadowy way is intolerable. But for the few, in whom love is,\nthe eyes are circumspect against the dark hour which comes when heart\nand brain and blood are aflame with the paramount ecstasy of love....\n\nOh, flame that burns where fires of home are lit! and oh, flame that\nburns in the heart to whom life has not said, Awake! and oh, flame that\nsmoulders from death to life, and from life to death, in the dumb lives\nof those to whom the primrose way is closed! Everywhere the burning of\nthe burning, the flame of the flame, pain and the shadow of pain, joy\nand the rapt breath of joy, flame of the flame that, burning, destroyeth\nnot, till the flame is no more!...\n\n\nIt is said of an ancient poet of the Druid days that he had the power to\nsee the lines of the living, and these as though they were phantoms,\nseparate from the body. Was there not a young king of Albainn who, in a\nperilous hour, discovered the secret of old time, and knew how a life\nmay be hidden away from the body so that none may know of it, save the\nwind that whispers all things, and the tides of day and night that bear\nall things upon their dark flood?...\n\nThe fragrance of the forest intoxicated him. Spring was come indeed. The\nwild storm had ruined nothing, for at its fiercest it had swept\noverhead. Everywhere the green fire of Spring would be litten anew. A\ngreen flame would pass from meadow to hedgerow, from hedgerow to the\ntangled thickets of bramble and dog-rose, from the underwoods to the\ninmost forest glades.\n\nEverywhere song would be to the birds, everywhere young life would\npulse, everywhere the rhythm of a new rapture would run rejoicing. The\nMiracle of Spring would be accomplished in the sight of all men, of all\nbirds and beasts, of all green life. Each, in its kind would have a\nswifter throb in the red blood of the vivid sap....\n\nShe was his Magic. The light of their love was upon everything. Deeply\nas he loved beauty he had learned to love it far more keenly and\nunderstandingly because of her. He saw now through the accidental and\neverywhere discerned the Eternal Beauty, the echoes of whose wandering\nare in every heart and brain though few discern the white vision or hear\nthe haunting voice.... Thus it was she had for him this immutable\nattraction which a few women have for a few men; an appeal, a charm,\nthat atmosphere of romance, that _air_ of ideal beauty, wherein lies the\nsecret of all passionate art.\n\nThe world without wonder, the world without mystery! That indeed is the\nrainbow without colours, the sunrise without living gold, the noon void\nof light....\n\nIn deep love there is no height nor depth between two hearts, no height\nnor depth nor length nor breadth. There is simply love. What if both at\ntimes were wrought too deeply by this beautiful dream? What if the inner\nlife triumphed now and then, and each forgot the deepest instinct of\nlife that here the body is overlord, and the soul but a divine consort?\n\n\nThere are three races of man. There is the myriad race which loses all\nthrough (not bestiality, for the brute world is clean and sane)\nperverted animalism; and there is the myriad race which denounces\nhumanity, and pins all its faith and joy to a life the very conditions\nof whose existence are incompatible with the law to which we are\nsubject--the sole law, the law of nature.\n\nThen there is that small untoward clan, which knows the divine call of\nthe spirit through the brain, and the secret whisper of the soul in the\nheart, and for ever perceives the veils of mystery and the rainbows of\nhope upon our human horizons, which hears and sees, and yet turns\nwisely, meanwhile, to the life of the green earth, of which we are part,\nto the common kindred of living things with which we are at one--is\ncontent, in a word, to live because of the dream that makes living so\nmysteriously sweet and poignant; and to dream because of the commanding\nimmediacy of life....\n\nWhat are dreams but the dust of wayfaring thoughts? Or whence are they,\nand what air is upon their shadowy wings? Do they come out of the\ntwilight of man's mind: are they ghosts of exiles from vanished palaces\nof the brain: or are they heralds with proclamations of hidden tidings\nfor the soul that dreams?\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD\n\n  \"_The Souls of the Living are the Beauty of the World._\"--BACON.\n\nFor out of his thoughts about Annaik and Ynys arose a fuller, a deeper\nconception of womanhood. How well he remembered a legend that Ynys had\nonce told him: a legend of a fair spirit which goes to and fro upon the\nworld, the Weaver of Tears. He loves the pathways of sorrow. His voice\nis low and sweet, with a sound like the bubbling of waters in that fount\nwhence the rainbows rise. His eyes are in quiet places, and in the dumb\npain of animals as in the agony of the human brain: but most he is\nfound, oftenest are the dewy traces of his feet, in the heart of woman.\n\nTears, tears: they are not the saltest tears which are on the lids of\nthose who weep. Fierce tears there are, hot founts of pain in the mind\nof many a man, that are never shed, but slowly crystallise in furrows on\nbrow and face, and in deep weariness in the eyes: fierce tears,\nunquenchable, in the heart of many a woman, whose brave eyes look\nfearlessly at life, whose dauntless courage goes forth daily to die but\nnever to be vanquished.\n\nIn truth the Weaver of Tears abides in the heart of woman. O Mother of\nPity, of Love, of deep Compassion: with thee it is to yearn for ever for\nthe ideal human, to bring the spiritual love into fashion with human\ndesire, endlessly to strive, endlessly to fail, always to hope in spite\nof disillusion, to love unswervingly against all baffling and\nmisunderstanding, and even forgetfulness! O Woman, whose eyes are always\nstretched out to her erring children, whose heart is big enough to cover\nall the little children in the world, and suffer with their sufferings,\nand joy with their joys: Woman, whose other divine names are Strength\nand Patience, who is no girl, no virgin, because she has drunk too\ndeeply of the fount of Life to be very young or very joyful. Upon her\nlips is the shadowy kiss of death: in her eyes is the shadow of birth.\nShe is the veiled interpreter of the two mysteries. Yet what joyousness\nlike hers, when she wills: because of her unwavering hope, her\ninexhaustible fount of love?\n\nSo it was that just as Alan had long recognised as a deep truth, how the\nspiritual nature of man has been revealed to humanity in many divine\nincarnations, so he had come to believe that the spiritual nature of\nwoman has been revealed in the many Marys, sisters of the Beloved, who\nhave had the keys of the soul and the heart in their unconscious\nkeeping. In this exquisite truth he knew a fresh and vivid hope.... A\nWoman-Saviour, who would come near to all of us, because in her heart\nwould be the blind tears of the child, the bitter tears of the man, and\nthe patient tears of the woman: who would be the Compassionate One, with\nno end or aim but compassion--with no doctrine to teach, no way to show,\nbut only deep, wonderful, beautiful, inalienable, unquenchable\ncompassion.\n\nFor in truth there is the divine eternal feminine counterpart to the\ndivine eternal male, and both are needed to explain the mystery of the\ndual spirit within us--the mystery of the two in one, so infinitely\nstranger and more wonderful than that triune life which the blind\nteachers of the blind have made a rock of stumbling and offence out of a\ntruth clear and obvious as noon.\n\nWe speak of Mother Nature, but we do not discern the living truth behind\nour words. How few of us have the vision of this great brooding Mother,\nwhose garment is the earth and sea, whose head is pillowed among the\nstars: she, who, with death and sleep as her familiar shapes, soothes\nand rests all the weariness of the world, from the waning leaf to the\nbeating pulse, from the brief span of a human heart to the furrowing of\ngranite brows by the uninterrupted sun, the hounds of rain and wind, and\nthe untrammelled airs of heaven.\n\nNot cruel, relentless, impotently anarchic, chaotically potent, this\nMater Genetrix. We see her thus, who are flying threads in the loom she\nweaves. But she is patient, abiding, certain, inviolate, and silent\never. It is only when we come to this vision of her whom we call Isis,\nor Hera, or Orchil, or one of a hundred other names, our unknown\nEarth-Mother, that men and women will know each other aright, and go\nhand in hand along the road of life without striving to crush, to\nsubdue, to usurp, to retaliate, to separate.\n\nAh, fair vision of humanity to come: man and woman side by side, sweet,\nserene, true, simple, natural, fulfilling earth's and heaven's behests,\nunashamed, unsophisticated, unaffected, each to each and for each,\nchildren of one mother, inheritors of a like destiny, and, at the last,\nartificers of an equal fate.\n\nPondering thus, Alan rose, and looked out, into the night. In that\ngreat stillness, wherein the moonlight lay like the visible fragrance of\nthe earth, he gazed long and intently. How shadow, now, were those lives\nthat had so lately palpitated in this very place: how strange their\nsilence, their incommunicable knowledge, their fathomless peace!\n\nWas it all lost ... the long endurance of pain, the pangs of sorrow? If\nso, what was the lesson of life? Surely to live with sweet serenity and\ngladness, content against the inevitable hour. There is solace of a kind\nin the idea of a common end, of that terrible processional march of life\nwherein the myriad is momentary, and the immeasurable is but a passing\nshadow. But, alas, it is only solace of a kind: for what heart that has\nbeat to the pulse of love can relinquish the sweet dream of life, and\nwhat coronal can philosophy put upon the brows of youth in place of\neternity.\n\nNo, no: of this he felt sure. In the Beauty of the World lies the\nultimate redemption of our mortality. When we shall become at one with\nnature in a sense profounder even than the poetic imaginings of most of\nus, we shall understand what now we fail to discern. The arrogance of\nthose who would have the stars as candles for our night, and the\nuniverse as a pleasance for our thought, will be as impossible as their\nblind fatuity who say we are of dust, briefly vitalised, that shall be\ndust again, with no fragrance saved from the rude bankruptcy of life, no\nbeauty raised up against the sun to bloom anew.\n\nIt is no idle dream, this: no idle dream that we are a perishing clan\namong the sons of God, because of this slow waning of our joy, of our\npassionate delight, in the Beauty of the World. We have been unable to\nlook out upon the shining of our star, for the vision overcomes us; and\nwe have used veils which we call \"scenery,\" \"picturesqueness,\" and the\nlike--poor, barren words that are so voiceless and remote before the\nrustle of leaves and the lap of water, before the ancient music of the\nwind, and all the sovran eloquence of the tides of light. But a day may\ncome--nay, shall surely come--when indeed the poor and the humble shall\ninherit the earth: they who have not made a league with temporal evils\nand out of whose heart shall arise the deep longing, that shall become\nuniversal, of the renewal of youth.\n\n\n... Often, too, alone in his observatory, where he was wont to spend\nmuch of his time, Alan knew that strange nostalgia of the mind for\nimpossible things. Then, wrought for a while from his vision of green\nlife, and flamed by another green fire than that born of the earth, he\ndreamed his dream. With him, the peopled solitude of night was a\nconcourse of confirming voices. He did not dread the silence of the\nstars, the cold remoteness of the stellar fire.\n\nIn that other watch-tower in Paris, where he had spent the best hours of\nhis youth, he had loved that nightly watch on the constellations. Now,\nas then, in the pulse of the planets he found assurances which faith had\nnot given him. In the vast majestic order of that nocturnal march, that\ndiurnal retreat, he had learned the law of the whirling leaf and the\nfalling star, of the slow aeon-delayed comet and of the slower wane of\nsolar fires. Looking with visionary eyes into that congregation of\nstars, he realised, not the littleness of the human dream, but its\ndivine impulsion. It was only when, after long vigils into the quietudes\nof night, he turned his gaze from the palaces of the unknown, and\nthought of the baffled fretful swarming in the cities of men, that his\nsoul rose in revolt against the sublime ineptitude of man's spiritual\nleaguer against destiny.\n\nDestiny--\"An Dan\"--it was a word familiar to him since childhood, when\nfirst he had heard it on the lips of old Ian Macdonald. And once, on the\neve of the Feast of Paschal, when Alan had asked Daniel Dare what was\nthe word which the stars spelled from zenith to nadir, the Astronomer\nhad turned and answered simply, \"_C'est le Destin_.\"\n\nBut Alan was of the few to whom this talismanic word opens lofty\nperspectives, even while it obscures those paltry vistas which we deem\nunending and dignify with vain hopes and void immortalities.\n\n  _To live in Beauty is to sum up in four words all the spiritual\n  aspiration of the soul of man._--F. M.\n\n\n\n\nA DREAM\n\n_To G. R. S. MEAD_\n\n\n  _Our thought, our consciousness, is but the scintillation of a wave:\n  below us is a moving shadow, our brief forecast and receding way;\n  beneath the shadow are depths sinking into depths, and then the\n  unfathomable unknown._--F. M.\n\n\n\n\nA Dream\n\n\nI was on a vast, an illimitable plain, where the dark blue horizons were\nsharp as the edges of hills. It was the world, but there was nothing in\nthe world. There was not a blade of grass nor the hum of an insect, nor\nthe shadow of a bird's wing. The mountains had sunk like waves in the\nsea when there is no wind; the barren hills had become dust. Forests had\nbecome the fallen leaf; and the leaf had passed. I was aware of one who\nstood beside me, though that knowledge was of the spirit only; and my\neyes were filled with the same nothingness as I beheld above and beneath\nand beyond. I would have thought I was in the last empty glens of Death,\nwere it not for a strange and terrible sound that I took to be the voice\nof the wind coming out of nothing, travelling over nothingness and\nmoving onward into nothing.\n\n\"There is only the wind,\" I said to myself in a whisper.\n\nThen the voice of the dark Power beside me, whom in my heart I knew to\nbe Dalua, the Master of Illusions, said: \"Verily, this is your last\nillusion.\"\n\nI answered: \"It is the wind.\"\n\nAnd the voice answered: \"That is not the wind that you hear, for the\nwind is dead. It is the empty, hollow echo of my laughter.\"\n\nThen, suddenly, he who was beside me lifted up a small stone, smooth as\na pebble of the sea. It was grey and flat, and yet to me had a terrible\nbeauty because it was the last vestige of the life of the world.\n\nThe Presence beside me lifted up the stone and said: \"It is the end.\"\n\nAnd the horizons of the world came in upon me like a rippling shadow.\nAnd I leaned over darkness and saw whirling stars. These were gathered\nup like leaves blown from a tree, and in a moment their lights were\nquenched, and they were further from me than grains of sand blown on a\nwhirlwind of a thousand years.\n\nThen he, that terrible one, Master of Illusions, let fall the stone, and\nit sank into the abyss and fell immeasurably into the infinite. And\nunder my feet the world was as a falling wave, and was not. And I fell,\nthough without sound, without motion. And for years and years I fell\nbelow the dim waning of light; and for years and years I fell through\nuniverses of dusk; and for years and years and years I fell through the\nenclosing deeps of darkness. It was to me as though I fell for\ncenturies, for aeons, for unimaginable time. I knew I had fallen beyond\ntime, and that I inhabited eternity, where were neither height, nor\ndepth, nor width, nor space.\n\nBut, suddenly, without sound, without motion, I stood steadfast upon a\nvast ledge. Before me, on that ledge of darkness become rock, I saw this\nstone which had been lifted from the world of which I was a shadow,\nafter shadow itself had died away. And as I looked, this stone became\nfire and rose in flame. Then the flame was not. And when I looked the\nstone was water; it was as a pool that did not overflow, a wave that did\nnot rise or fall, a shaken mirror wherein nothing was troubled.\n\nThen, as dew is gathered in silence, the water was without form or\ncolour or motion. And the stone seemed to me like a handful of earth\nheld idly in the poise of unseen worlds. What I thought was a green\nflame rose from it, and I saw that it had the greenness of grass, and\nhad the mystery of life. The green herb passed as green grass in a\ndrought; and I saw the waving of wings. And I saw shape upon shape, and\nimage upon image, and symbol upon symbol. Then I saw a man, and he,\ntoo, passed; and I saw a woman, and she, too, passed; and I saw a child,\nand the child passed. Then the stone was a Spirit. And it shone there\nlike a lamp. And I fell backward through deeps of darkness, through\nunimaginable time.\n\nAnd when I stood upon the world again it was like a glory. And I saw the\nstone lying at my feet.\n\nAnd One said: \"Do you not know me, brother?\"\n\nAnd I said: \"Speak, Lord.\"\n\nAnd Christ stooped and kissed me upon the brow.\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\n  _Unity does not lie in the emotional life of expression which we\n  call Art, which discerns it; it does not lie in nature, but in the\n  Soul of man._--F. M.\n\n\n\n\nNotes to First Edition\n\nTHE DIVINE ADVENTURE\n\n\nWhen \"The Divine Adventure\" appeared in the _Fortnightly Review_ in\nNovember and December last, I received many comments and letters. From\nthese I infer that my present readers will also be of two sections,\nthose who understand at once why, in this symbolical presentment, I\nignore the allegorical method--and those who, accustomed to the\nartificial method of allegory, would rather see this \"story of a soul\"\ntold in that method, without actuality, or as an ordinary essay stript\nof narrative.\n\nBut each can have only his own way of travelling towards a desired goal.\nI chose my way, because in no other, as it seemed to me, could I convey\nwhat I wanted to convey. Is it so great an effort of the imagination to\nconceive of the Mind and Soul actual as the Body is actual? And is there\nany tragic issue so momentous, among all the tragic issues of life, as\nthe problem of the Spirit, the Mind--the Will as I call it; that\nproblem as to whether it has to share the assured destiny of the Body,\nor the desired and possible destiny of the Soul? There is no spiritual\ntragedy so poignant as this uncertainty of the Will, the Spirit, what we\ncall the thinking part of us, before the occult word of the Soul,\ninhabiting here but as an impatient exile, and the inevitable end of\nthat Body to which it is so intimately allied, with which are its\nimmediate, and in a sense its most vital interests, and in whose\nmortality it would seem to have a dreadful share.\n\nThe symbolist, unlike the allegorist, cannot disregard the actual, the\nreality as it seems: he must, indeed, be supremely heedful of this\nreality as it seems. The symbolist or the mystic (properly they are one)\nabhors the vague, what is called the \"mystical\": he is supremely a\nrealist, but his realism is of the spirit and the imagination, and not\nof externals, or rather not of these merely, for there, too, he will not\ndisregard actuality, but make it his base, as the lark touches the solid\nearth before it rises where it can see both Earth and Heaven and sing a\nsong that partakes of each and belongs to both. \"In the kingdom of the\nimagination the ideal must ever be faithful to the general laws of\nnature,\" wrote one of the wisest of mystics. Art is pellucid mystery,\nand the only spiritually logical interpretation of life; and her\ninevitable language is Symbol--by which (whether in colour, or form, or\nsound, or word, or however the symbol be translated) a spiritual image\nillumines a reality that the material fact narrows or obscures.\n\nFor the rest, \"The Divine Adventure\" is an effort to solve, or obtain\nlight upon, the profoundest human problem. It is by looking inward that\nwe shall find the way outward. The gods--and what we mean by the\ngods--the gods seeking God have ever penetrated the soul by two roads,\nthat of nature and that of art. Edward Calvert put it supremely well\nwhen he said \"I go inward to God: outward to the gods.\" It was Calvert\nalso who wrote:--\n\n\"To charm the truthfulness of eternal law into a guise which it has not\nhad before, and clothe the invention with expression, this is the magic\nwith which the poet would lead the listener into a world of his own, and\nmake him sit down in the charmed circle of his own gods.\"\n\n\n_Page 96. The Felire na Naomh Nerennach_ (so spelt, more phonetically\nthan correctly) is an invaluable early \"Chronicle of Irish Saints.\"\nUladh--or Ulla--is the Gaelic for Ulster, though the ancient boundaries\nwere not the same as those of the modern province; and at periods Uladh\nstood for all North Ireland. Tara in the south was first the capital of\na kingdom, and later the federal capital. Thus, at the beginning of the\nChristian era, Concobar mac Nessa was both King of the Ultonians (the\nclans of Uladh) and Ard-Righ or High-King of Ireland, a nominal\nsuzerainty.\n\nThe name of Mochaoi's abbacy, _n' Aondruim_, was in time anglicised to\nAntrim.\n\nThe characteristic Gaelic passage quoted in English at p. 98 is not from\nthe _Felire na Naomh Nerennach_, but from a Hebridean source: excerpted\nfrom one of the many treasures-troves rescued from extant or recently\nextant Gaelic lore by Mr. Alexander Carmichael, all soon to be published\n(the outcome of a long life of unselfish devotion) under the title _Or\nagus Ob_, though we may be sure that there will be little \"dross\" and\nmuch \"gold.\"\n\n\n_Page 101._ The allusion is to the story or sketch called \"The Book of\nthe Opal\" in _The Dominion of Dreams_: a sketch true in essentials, but\nhaving at its close an arbitrary interpolation of external symbolism\nwhich I now regret as superfluous. I have since realised that the only\nliving and convincing symbol is that which is conceived of the spirit\nand not imagined by the mind. My friend's life, and end, were strange\nenough--and significant enough--without the effort to bring home to\nother minds by an arbitrary formula what should have been implicit.\n\n\n_Page 102._ I have again and again, directly or indirectly, since my\nfirst book _Pharais_ to the repeated record in this book, alluded to\nSeumas Macleod; and as I have shown in \"Barabal,\" here, and in the\ndedication to this book, it is to the old islander and to my Hebridean\nnurse, Barabal, that I owe more than to any other early influences. For\nthose who do not understand the character of the Island-Gael, or do not\nrealise that all Scotland is not Presbyterian, it may be as well to add\nthat many of the islesmen are of the Catholic faith (broadly, the\nSouthern Hebrides are wholly Catholic), and that therefore the brooding\nimagination of an old islander--who spoke Gaelic only, and had never\nvisited the mainland--might the more readily dwell upon Mary the Mother:\nMary of the Lamb, Mary the Shepherdess, as she is lovingly called. I do\nnot, for private reasons, name the island where he lived: but I have\nwritten of him, or of what he said, nothing but what was so, or was thus\nsaid. He had suffered much, and was lonely: but was, I think, the\nhappiest, and, I am sure, the wisest human being I have known. What I\ncannot now recall is whether his belief in Mary's Advent was based on an\nold prophecy, or upon a faith of his own dreams and visions, coloured by\nthe visions and dreams of a like mind and longing: perhaps, and\nlikeliest, upon both. I was not more than seven years old when that\nhappened of which I have written on p. 102, and so recall with surety\nonly that which I saw and heard.\n\nI am glad to know that another is hardly less indebted to old Seumas\nMacleod. I am not permitted to mention his name, but a friend and\nkinsman allows me to tell this: that when he was about sixteen he was on\nthe remote island where Seumas lived, and on the morrow of his visit\ncame at sunrise upon the old man, standing looking seaward with his\nbonnet removed from his long white locks; and upon his speaking to\nSeumas (when he saw he was not \"at his prayers\") was answered, in Gaelic\nof course, \"Every morning like this I take off my hat to the beauty of\nthe world.\"\n\nThe untaught islander who could say this had learned an ancient wisdom,\nof more account than wise books, than many philosophies.\n\nLet me tell one other story of him, which I have meant often to tell,\nbut have as often forgotten. He had gone once to the Long Island, with\nthree fishermen, in their herring-coble. The fish had been sold, and the\nboat had sailed southward to a Lews haven where Seumas had a relative.\nThe younger men had \"hanselled\" their good bargain overwell, and were\nlaughing and talking freely, as they walked up the white road from the\nhaven. Something was said that displeased Seumas greatly, and he might\nhave spoken swiftly in reproof; but just then a little naked child ran\nlaughing from a cottage, chased by his smiling mother. Seumas caught up\nthe child, who was but an infant, and set him in their midst, and then\nkneeled and said the few words of a Hebridean hymn beginning:--\n\n    \"Even as a little child\n      Most holy, pure....\"\n\nNo more was said, but the young men understood; and he who long\nafterward told me of this episode added that though he had often since\nacted weakly and spoken foolishly, he had never, since that day, uttered\nfoul words. Another like characteristic anecdote of Seumas (as the\nskipper who made his men cease mocking a \"fool\") I have told in the tale\ncalled \"The Amadan\" in the _The Dominion of Dreams_.\n\nI could write much of this revered friend--so shrewd and genial and\nworldly-wise, for all his lonely life; so blithe in spirit and swiftly\nhumorous; himself a poet, and remembering countless songs and tales of\nold; strong and daring, on occasion; good with the pipes, as with the\nnets; seldom angered, but then with a fierce anger, barbaric in its\nvehemence; a loyal clansman; in all things, good and not so good, a Gael\nof the Isles.\n\nBut since I have not done so, not gathered into one place, I add this\nnote.\n\n\n_Page 113._ The kingdom of the Suderoeer (_i.e._ Southern Isles) was the\nNorse name for the realm of the Hebrides and Inner Hebrides when the\nIsles were under Scandinavian dominion.\n\n\n_Page 118._ The ignorance or supineness which characterises so many\nEnglish writers on Celtic history is to be found even among Highland\nand Irish clerics and others who have not taken the trouble to study or\neven become acquainted with their own ancient literature, but fallen\ninto the foolish and discreditable conventionalism which maintains that\nbefore Columban or in pre-Christian days the Celtic race consisted of\nwholly uncivilised and broken tribes, rivals only in savagery.\n\nHow little true that is; as wide of truth as the statements that the far\ninfluences of Iona ceased with the death of Columba. Not only was the\nisland for two centuries thereafter (in the words of an eminent\nhistorian) \"the nursery of bishops, the centre of education, the asylum\nof religious knowledge, the place of union, the capital and necropolis\nof the Celtic race,\" but the spiritual colonies of Iona had everywhere\nleavened western Europe. Charlemagne knew and reverenced \"this little\npeople of Iona,\" who from a remote island in the wild seas beyond the\nalmost as remote countries of Scotland and England had spread the Gospel\neverywhere. Not only were many monasteries founded by monks from Iona in\nthe narrower France of that day, but also in Lorraine, Alsatia, in\nSwitzerland, and in the German states; in distant Bavaria even, no\nfewer than sixteen were thus founded. In the very year the Danes made\ntheir first descent on the doomed island, a monk of Iona was Bishop of\nTarento in Italy. In a word, in that day, Iona was the brightest gem in\nthe spiritual crown of Rome.\n\n\n_Page 128._ The \"little-known namesake of my own\" alluded to is Fiona,\nor Fionaghal Macleod, known (in common with her more famous sister Mary)\nby the appellation _Nighean Alasdair Ruadh_, \"Daughter of Alasdair the\nRed,\" was born _circa_ 1575.\n\n\n_Page 130._ Columba, whose house-name was Crimthan, \"Wolf\"--surviving in\nour Scoto-Gaelic MacCrimmon--who was of royal Irish blood and, through\nhis mother of royal Scottish (Pictish) blood also, came to Iona in A.D.\n563, when he was in his forty-second year. At that date, St. Augustine,\n\"the English Columba,\" had not yet landed in Kent--that more famous\nevent occurring thirty-four years later. In this year of 563, the East\nhad not yet awakened to its wonderful dream that to-day has in number\nmore dreamers than the Cross of Christ; for it was not till six years\nlater, when Columba was on a perilous mission of conversion among the\nPicts, that Mahomet was born. In 563, when Colum landed on Iona, the\nyoung Italian priest who was afterwards to be called the Architect of\nthe Church and to become famous as Pope Gregory the Great, was dreaming\nhis ambitious dreams; and farther East, in Constantinople, then the\ncapital of the Western World, the great Roman Emperor Justinian was\nlaying the foundation of modern law.\n\n\nWith the advent of Charlemagne, two hundred years later, \"the old world\"\npassed. When the ninth century opened, the great Gregory's dearest hopes\nwere in the dust where his bones lay; Justinian's metropolis was fallen\nfrom her pride; and, on Iona, the heathen Danes drank to Odin.\n\n\n_Page 136._ The _Mor-Rigan_. This euphemerised Celtic queen is called by\nmany names: even those resembling that just given vary much--_Morrigu_,\n_Mor Reega_, _Morrigan_, _Morgane_, _Mur-ree (Mor Ree)_, etc. The old\nword _Mor-Rigan_ means \"the great queen.\" She is the mother of the\nGaelic Gods, as _Bona Dea_ of the Romans. \"_Anu_ is her name,\" says an\nancient writer. Anu suckled the elder gods. Her name survives in\n_Tuatha-De-Danann_, in _Danu_, _Ana_, and perhaps in that mysterious\nScoto-Gaelic name, Teampull _Anait_--the temple of Anait--whom some\nwriters collate with an ancient Asiatic goddess, Anait (see p. 171). It\nhas been suggested that the Celts gave _Bona Dea_ to the Romans, for\nthese considered her Hyperborean. A less likely derivation of the\npopular \"_Morrigu_\" is that _Mor Reega_ is _Mor Reagh_ (wealth).\nKeating, it may be added, speaks of Monagan, Badha, and Macha as the\nthree chief goddesses of the Divine Race of Ana (the Tuatha De Danann).\nStudents of Celtic mythology and legend, and of the Tain-bo-Cuailgne in\nparticular, will remember that her white bull \"Find-Bennach\" was\n\"antagonist\" to the famous brown bull of Cuailgne. The Mor Rigan has\nbeen identified with Cybele--as the Goddess of Prosperity: but only\nspeculatively. Another name of the Mother of all Gods is _Aine (Anu?)_.\nProf. Rhys says _Ri_ or _Roi_ was the Mother of the gods of the\nnon-Celtic races. It is suggestive that _Ana_ is a Phoenician word: that\npeople had a (virgin?) goddess named _Ana-Perema_.\n\n\n_Page 156._ _Finn_--_Oisin_--_Oscur_--_Gaul_--_Diarmid_--_Cuchullin_.\nThese names as they stand exhibit the uncertainty of Gaelic\nname-spelling. In the case of the first named there is constant\nvariation. The oldest writing is Find (also Fend), or Fin. Some Gaelic\nwriters prefer, in modern use, Fionn. Through a misapprehension,\nMacpherson popularised the name in Scotland as Fingal, and the _Fein_\nand _Fianna_ (for they are not the same, as commonly supposed, the\nformer being the Clan or People of Finn, and the latter a kind of\nmilitia raised for the defence of Uladh), as the Fingalians. Some Irish\ncritics have been severe upon Macpherson's \"impossible nomenclature\";\nbut _Fingal_ is not \"impossible,\" though it is certainly not old Gaelic\nfor Finn--for the word can quite well stand for Fair Stranger, and might\nwell have been a name given to a Norse (or for that matter a Gaelic)\nchampion.\n\n_Fin MacCumhal_ (Fin MacCooal or MacCool) is now commonly rendered as\nFinn or Fionn. The latter is good Gaelic and the finer word, but the\nother is older. Fionn obtains more in Gaelic Scotland. _Fingal_ and the\n_Fingalians_ are modern, and due solely to the great vogue given by\nMacpherson--though many writers and even Gaelic speakers have adopted\nthem.\n\nFionn's famous son, again, is almost universally (outside Gaelic\nScotland and Ireland) known as Ossian, because of Macpherson's spelling\nof the name. Neither the Highland nor Irish Gaels pronounce it so--but\nOshshen, and the like--best represented by the Gaelic _Oisin_ or Oisein.\nPersonally I prefer Oisin to any other spelling; but perhaps it would be\nbest if the word were uniformly spelt in the manner in which it is\nuniversally familiar. Obviously, too, \"Ossianic\" is the only suitable\nuse of the name in adjective form. _Oscur_ is probably merely a Gaelic\nspelling of the Norse Oscar; though I recollect a student of ancient\nGaelic names telling me that the name was Gaelic and only resembled the\nfamiliar Scandinavian word. _Gaul_ is commonly so spelt; but Goll is\nprobably more correct. _Diarmid_ has many variations, from Diarmuid to\nDermid; but Diarmid is the best English equivalent both in sound and\ncorrectness.\n\nIt is still a moot point as to whether in narration, Gaelic names should\nbe given as they are, or be anglicised--or Gaelic exclamations to\nphrases in their original spelling, or more phonetically to an English\near. I think it should depend on circumstances, and within the writer's\ntact. I have myself been taken to task again and again, by critics eager\nwith the eagerness of little knowledge, for partial anglicisation of\nnames and presumed mistakes in Gaelic spelling, when, surely, the\nintention was obvious that a compromise was being attempted. Let me give\nan example. How would the English reader like a story of, say, a Donald\nMacintyre and a Grace Maclean and an Ivor Mackay if these names were\ngiven in their Gaelic form, as Domnhuil Mac-an-t-Saoir and Giorsal nic\nIlleathain and Imhir Mac Aodh--or even if simple names, like, say, Meave\nand Malvina, were given as Medb or Malmhin?\n\nIt is a pity there is not one recognised way of spelling the legendary\nname of Setanta, the chief hero of the Gaelic chivalry. Probably the\nbest rendering is Cuchulain. The old form is Cuculaind. But colloquially\nthe name in Gaelic is called Coohoolin or Coohullun; and so Cuculaind\nwould mislead the ordinary reader. The Scottish version is generally\nCuchullin--the _ch_ soft: a more correct rendering of the Macphersonian\nCuthullin, a misnomer responsible no doubt for the common mistake that\nthe Coolin (Cuthullin) mountains in Skye have any connection with the\ngreat Gaelic hero (see p. 155). Setanta, a prince of Uladh, was taught\nfor a time in the art of weaponry by one Culain or Culaind, and after a\ncertain famous act of prowess became known as The Hound of Culain--_Cu_\nbeing a hound, whence Cuculain, or with the sign of the genitive,\nCuchulain. Every variation of the name, and all the legends of the\nCuchullin cycle, will be found in Miss Eleanor Hull's excellent\nredaction, published by Mr. Nutt. The interested reader should see also\nthe classical work of O'Curry: the vivid and romantic chronicle of Mr.\nStandish O'Grady; and the fascinating and scholarly edition of _The\nFeast of Bricrin_, recently published as the second volume of the Irish\nTexts Society, by Dr. George Henderson, the most scholarly of Highland\nspecialists.\n\n\n_Page 162 seq._ No one has collected so much material on the subject of\nSt. Michael as Mr. Alexander Carmichael has done. Some of his lore, in\nsheiling-hymns and fishing-hymns, he has already made widely known,\ndirectly and indirectly: but in his forthcoming _Or agus Ob_, already\nalluded to, there will be found a long and invaluable section devoted to\nSt. Micheil, as also, I understand, one of like length and interest on\nSt. Bride or Briget, the most beloved of Hebridean saints, and herself\nprobably a Christian successor of a much more ancient Brighde, a Celtic\ndeity, it is said, of Song and Beauty.\n\n\n_Page 181. Be'al._ I do not think there is any evidence to prove that\nthe Be'al or Bel often spelt Baal--whose name and worship survive to\nthis day in _Bealltainn_ (Beltane), May-day--of Gaelic mythology, is\nidentical with the Phoenician god Baal, though probably of a like\nsignificance. The Gaelic name, which may be anglicised into Be'al,\nsignifies \"Source of All.\"\n\nI am inclined to believe that the Be'al or Bel of the Gaels has his\nanalogue in the Gaulish mythology in _Hesus_ (also _Esua_, _Aesus_, and\n_Heus_), a mysterious (supreme?) god of ancient Gaul, surviving still in\nArmorican legend. If so, Hesus or Aesus may be identical with the \"lost\"\nGaelic god _Aesar_ or _Aes_. _Aesar_ means \"fire-kindler,\" whence the\nCreator. (In this connection I would ask if _Aed_, an ancient Gaelic god\nof fire, also of death, be identical with (as averred) a still more\nancient Greek name of Fire, or God of Fire = _Aed_?). Be'al, the Source\nof All, may take us back to the Phoenician _Baal_: but the Gaelic _Aes_\nand the Gaulish _Aesus (Hesus)_ take us, with the Scandinavian _Aesir_,\nfurther still: to the Persian _Aser_, the Hindoo _Aeswar_, the Egyptian\n_Asi_ (the Sun-bull), and the Etruscan _Aesar_. The _Bhagavat-Gita_ says\nof Aeswar that \"he resides in every mortal.\"\n\n\n_Pages 199-203._ This section, slightly adapted, is from an unpublished\nbook, in gradual preparation, entitled _The Chronicles of the Sidhe_.\n\n\n_Page 225. The Culdees._ Though I have alluded in the text to the\nprobable meaning of a word that has perplexed many people, I add this\nnote as I have just come upon another theoretical statement about the\nCuldees as though they were an oriental race or sect. The writer\nevidently thinks they are the same as Chaldaeans, and builds a\nstartlingly unscientific theory on that assumption. In all probability\nthe word is simply _Cille-De_, _i.e._, [the man of the] Cell of\nGod--_Cille_ being Cell, a Church--and so a Cille-De man would be \"man\nof God,\" a monk, a cleric. A much more puzzling problem obtains in the\napparent traces of Buddha-worship in the Hebrides. It may or may not be\nof much account that the author of _Lewisiana_ \"admits reluctantly\" that\n\"we must accept the possibility of a Buddhist race passing north of\nIreland.\" I have not seen _Lewisiana_ for some years, and cannot recall\non what grounds the author arrives at his conclusion. But from my notes\non the subject I see that M. Coquebert-Montbret, in the _Soc. des\nAntiquaires de_ _France_, argues at great length that the Asiatic\nBuddhist missionaries who penetrated to Western Europe, reached Ireland\nand Scotland. He asks if the ancient Gaelic Deity named _Budd_ or\n_Budwas_ be not _Buddh_ (Buddha). Another French antiquary avers that\nthe Druids were \"an order of Eastern priests adoring Buddwas.\" Some\nlight on the problem is thrown by the fact that the Gaulo-Celtic museum\nin St. Germain is an ancient Celtic \"god\"--the fourth in kind that has\nbeen found--with its legs crossed after the manner of the Indian Buddha.\nIt is more interesting still to note that in the Hebrides spirits are\nsometimes called _Boduchas_ or _Buddachs_, and that the same word is (or\nused to be) applied to heads of families, as the Master.\n\n\n_Pages 242, 248._ These two sections, rearranged, and in part rewritten,\nare excerpted from what I wrote in Iona, some five years ago, for a\npreface to _The Sin-Eater_.\n\n\n_Page 256._ In its original form this was written about a book of great\ninterest and beauty, _The Shadow of Arvor: Legendary Romances of\nBrittany_. Translated and retold by Edith Wingate Rinder.\n\n_Arvor (or Armor_) is one of the bardic equivalents of _Armorica_, as\nBrittany is called in many old tales. The name means the Sea-Washed\nLand, _Vor_ or _Mor_ being Breton for \"sea,\" as in the famous region\n_Morbihan_ the Little Sea. Neither the Bretons for their Cymric kindred,\nhowever, call Brittany _Arvor_, or the Latinised _Armorica_. Arvor is\nthe poetic name of a portion of Basse Bretagne only. Bretons call\nBrittany _Breiz_, and their language _Brezoned_, and themselves\n_Breiziaded_ (singular _Breiziad_)--as they keep to the French\ndifferentiation of _Bretagne_ and _Grande Bretagne_ in _Bro-Zaos_, the\nSaxon-Land, as they speak of France (beyond Brittany), as _Bro-chall_,\nthe Land of Gaul. In Gaelic I think Brittany is always spoken of as\n_Breatunn-Beag_, Little Britain. The Welsh call the country, its people,\nand language, _Llydaw_, _Llydawiaid_, _Llydawaeg_.\n\n                                                                 F. M.\n\n\n\n\nBIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\nBy Mrs. William Sharp\n\n\nThe first edition of _The Divine Adventure: Iona: By Sundown Shores_ was\npublished in 1900 by Messrs. Chapman and Hall. The Titular Essay (since\nrevised) appeared first in _The Fortnightly Review_ for November and\nDecember, 1899. A large portion of \"Iona\" (though in different sequence)\nappeared also in _The Fortnightly_, March and April, 1900. Both\n\"spiritual histories\" were published separately in book form in America\nby Mr. T. Mosher; \"Iona,\" curtailed and rearranged under the title of\n\"The Isle of Dreams,\" in 1905. The Essay \"Celtic\" in its original form,\nfirst printed in _The Contemporary Review_, will now be found, revised\nand materially added to, in _The Winged Destiny_. In this Uniform\nEdition of the writings of \"Fiona Macleod\" (William Sharp) the following\nstories, etc., have been transferred to the present volume: \"The White\nFever\" and \"The Smoothing of the Hand\" from _The Sin-Eater_; \"The White\nHeron\" which relates to the earlier story of Mary Maclean in _Pharais_,\nis from _The Dominion of Dreams_, and in its earliest version appeared\nwith illustrations in the Christmas number of _Harper_ in 1898. \"A\nDream\" appeared first in the _Theosophical Review_ of September, 1904.\nFinally I have added to this volume the latter portion and some detached\nfragments from _Green Fire_, a Romance by \"Fiona Macleod\" dealing with\nBrittany and the Hebrid Isles and published in 1896 by Messrs. A.\nConstable, and in America by Messrs. Harper Bros. But William Sharp\nconsidered that the book suffered from grave defects of design and\nconstruction and decided that, when out of print, it should not be\nrepublished. \"The Herdsman,\" however, is--as he stated in a note to the\nfirst Edition of _The Dominion of Dreams_, \"a re-written and materially\naltered version of the Hebridean part of _Green Fire_ of which book it\nis all I care to preserve.\" Nevertheless, in accordance with the wishes\nof several friends, I have very willingly put together a series of\ndetached fragments from the book and placed them beside \"The Herdsman\"\nas, in our opinion equally worthy of preservation, since the author's\nprohibition precludes the possibility of reprinting the book in its\nentirety.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    WOODS & SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, LONDON, N.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n          _UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_\n\n          THE COLLECTED WORKS OF FIONA MACLEOD\n          (WILLIAM SHARP)\n\n          In Seven Volumes. Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.\n          With Photogravure Frontispieces from\n          Photographs and Drawings by D. Y. Cameron,\n          A.R.S.A.\n\n            I. PHARAIS: THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS\n           II. THE SIN EATER; THE WASHER OF THE FORD AND\n               OTHER LEGENDARY MORALITIES\n          III. THE DOMINION OF DREAMS: UNDER THE DARK\n               STAR\n           IV. THE DIVINE ADVENTURE: IONA: STUDIES IN\n               SPIRITUAL HISTORY\n            V. THE WINGED DESTINY: STUDIES IN THE\n               SPIRITUAL HISTORY OF THE GAEL\n           VI. THE SILENCE OF AMOR: WHERE THE FOREST\n               MURMURS\n          VII. POEMS AND DRAMAS\n\n\n          ALSO UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE\n\n          SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM SHARP\n\n          In Five Volumes\n\n            I. POEMS\n           II. STUDIES AND APPRECIATIONS\n          III. PAPERS CRITICAL AND REMINISCENT\n           IV. LITERARY GEOGRAPHY AND TRAVEL SKETCHES\n            V. VISTAS: GIPSY CHRIST AND OTHER PROSE\n               IMAGININGS\n\n          AND\n          MEMOIRS OF WILLIAM SHARP\n          (FIONA MACLEOD)\n          Compiled by MRS. WILLIAM SHARP\n          (In two volumes)\n\n          LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN\n\n\n\n\n  +------------------------------------------------------------------+\n  | Transcriber's Notes:                                             |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Obvious punctuation errors repaired.                             |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Printer errors corrected. These include:                         |\n  | - Page 34, word \"creening\" corrected to be \"creeping\" (night-jar |\n  |   creeping forward)                                              |\n  | - Page 40, word \"it's\" corrected to be \"its\" (for its need)      |\n  | - Page 94, word \"lighed\" corrected to be \"lighted\" (whose flame  |\n  |   lighted)                                                       |\n  | - Page 189, word \"do\" corrected to be \"no\" (speak no more)       |\n  | - Page 196, word \"bu\" corrected to be \"but\" (had nane but)       |\n  | - Page 224, word \"Colnm\" corrected to be \"Colum\" (Colum the      |\n  |   White)                                                         |\n  | - Page 314, word \"lonroid\" corrected to be \"loneroid\" (bracken   |\n  |   and loneroid)                                                  |\n  | - Page 344, word \"thonght\" corrected to be \"thought\" (as he      |\n  |   thought)                                                       |\n  | - Page 347, word \"npon\" corrected to be \"upon\" (here upon Rona)  |\n  | - Page 377, word \"sale\" corrected to be \"sail\" (useless sail)    |\n  | - Page 378, word \"Allen\" corrected to be \"Alan\" (to affect Alan) |\n  | - Page 384, word \"commume\" corrected to be \"commune\" (enjoyed    |\n  |   the commune)                                                   |\n  | - Page 390, word \"mavellous\" corrected to be \"marvellous\" (so    |\n  |   many marvellous)                                               |\n  | - Page 402, word \"hs\" corrected to be \"he\" (he dreamed his)      |\n  | - Page 416, word \"treasures-trove\" corrected to be               |\n  |   \"treasure-troves\" (many treasure-troves rescued)               |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | The author's variable spelling (both in English and Gaelic) has  |\n  | been kept. This includes:                                        |\n  | - Both \"airidh\" and \"airidh\"                                     |\n  | - Both \"Amadan-Dhu\" and \"Amadan Dhu\"                             |\n  | - Both Angus \"Og\" and \"Og\"                                       |\n  | - Both \"Beite\" and \"Beithe\"                                      |\n  | - Both Buachaill \"Ban\" and \"Ban\"                                 |\n  | - Both \"bhuachaile\" and \"bhuachaille\"                            |\n  | - Both \"chlarsach\" and \"chlarsaich\"                              |\n  | - Both \"Coolins\" and \"Coolin\" mountain                           |\n  | - Both \"Eachainn\" and \"Eachain\" MacEachainn                      |\n  | - Both \"Feinn\" and \"Feinn\"                                       |\n  | - Both \"fore-knowledge\" and \"foreknowledge\"                      |\n  | - Both \"foretell\" and \"fortell\"                                  |\n  | - Both \"hill-slope\" and \"hillslope\"                              |\n  | - Both \"maighdean-mhara\" and \"Maigh-deann-M'hara\"                |\n  | - Both mo \"ghraidh\" and \"ghraidh\"                                |\n  | - Both \"mythopoeic\" and \"mythopoeic\"                             |\n  | - Both \"n'Aondruim\" and \"n'-Aondruim\"                            |\n  | - Both \"Oisin\" and \"Oisin\"                                       |\n  | - Both \"re-born\" and \"reborn\"                                    |\n  | - Both \"re-written\" and \"rewritten\"                              |\n  | - Both \"Reilig\" and \"Reilig\" Odhrain                             |\n  | - Both \"sea-fowl\" and \"seafowl\"                                  |\n  | - Both \"sea-weed\" and \"seaweed\"                                  |\n  | - Both \"sheiling-hymn\" and \"shealing-hymn\"                       |\n  | - \"Sliochd-nan-Ron,\" \"Sliochd nan Ron,\" and \"Sliochd-nan-ron\"    |\n  | - Both \"Sidhe\" and \"Sidhe\"                                       |\n  | - Both \"sun-down\" and \"sundown\"                                  |\n  | - Both \"Uain-ghil\" and \"Uain ghil\"                               |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Some advertisements for other books published by William         |\n  | Heinemann were moved from the start (before the title) to the    |\n  | end of the text(after the Bibliographical Note).                 |\n  |                                                                  |\n  +------------------------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"The Works of \"Fiona Macleod\", Volume IV","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":88719}