HIGHLAND EMIGRATION.

Son of the Gaël, how many a wierie change
The wing of time has brought across thy hills!
How many a deed uncouth, and custom strange,
The lofty spirit of thy fathers chills!
The usage of thy foes thy region fills,
And low thy head is bowed their hand beneath,
And driven by innumerable ills,
Thy olden race is gone from hill and heath,
To live a homeless life, and die a stranger’s death.

The preceding stanza is the first in the poem entitled “The Last Deer of Beann Doran.” On the last two lines its author Mr. James Hay Allan, appends a note as follows:—

In consequence of the enormous advance of rents, and the system of throwing the small crofts into extensive sheep-farms, the Highlands have been so depopulated in the last seventy-seven years,[351] that the inhabitants do not now amount to above one-third of their number at the commencement of that period. An instance of this melancholy fact is very striking in Glen Urcha: in 1745 the east half only of the straith from Dalmallie to Strone sent out a hundred fighting men: at the present day there are not in the same space above thirty. This proportion of decrease is general. During the last twenty years fifteen hundred persons have gone from Argyleshire; three thousand from Inverness; the same number from Ross and Caithness; and five thousand from Sutherland. The desertions have been equal in the isles. Pennant, speaking of the inhabitants of Skie, says: “Migrations and depression of spirit, the last a common cause of depopulation, have since the year 1750 reduced the number from fifteen thousand to between twelve and thirteen: one thousand having crossed the Atlantic; others, sunk beneath poverty, or in despair, ceased to obey the first great command, Increase and multiply.” These observations were written in 1774; so that the depopulation which is mentioned, took place in twenty-four years.

It is impossible to paint the first departings of a people who held the memory of their ancestors, and the love of their soil, a part of their soul. Unacquainted with any mechanical art, and unable to obtain for their overflowing numbers an agricultural or pastoral employment in their own country, they were obliged to abandon their native land, and seek an asylum in the unpeopled deserts of the western world. The departing inhabitants of each straith and hamlet gathered into bands, and marched out of their glens with the piper playing before them the death lament, “Cha pill! cha pill! cha pill me tulle!”—“Never! never! never shall I return!” Upon the spot where they were to lose sight of their native place, and part from those who were to remain behind, they threw themselves upon the ground in an agony of despair, embracing the earth, moistening the heather with their tears, and clinging with hopeless anguish to the necks and plaids of the friends whom they were to see no more. When the hour of separation was past, they went forth upon the world a lonely, sad, expatriated race, rent from all which bound them to the earth, and lost amid the tide of mankind: none mixed with them in character, none blended with them in sympathy. They were left in their simplicity to struggle with fraud, ignorance, and distress, a divided people set apart to misfortune.

In the third stanza of the poem on “Beann Doran,” its author says,

There was a time—alas! full long ago,
Wide forests waved upon thy mountains’ side.

On these lines Mr. Allan remarks as follows:—

Almost every district of the Highlands bears the trace of the vast forests with which at no very distant period the hills and heaths were covered: some have decayed with age, but large tracts were purposely destroyed in the latter end of the sixteenth and the early part of the seventeenth century. On the south side of Beann Nevis a large pine forest, which extended from the western braes of Lochabar to the black water and the mosses of Ranach, was burned to expel the wolves. In the neighbourhood of Loch Sloi a tract of woods, nearly twenty miles in extent, was consumed for the same purpose; and at a later period a considerable part of the forests adjoining to Lochiel was laid waste by the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, in their attempts to subdue the Clan Cameron. Nothing of late years has tended more to the destruction of the small woods than the pasturage of sheep. Wherever these animals have access to a copse-wood which has been cut down, they entirely stunt its growth, and sometimes destroy it altogether, by continually eating off the young shoots as soon as they appear. A considerable quantity of the yet remaining woods is also too frequently sacrificed to the avarice of the proprietors. On the west bank of Loch Catrine, near the Trossachs, a ground which ought now to have been as sacred as the vale of Tempe, a beautiful copse-wood has been cut and sold within a recent period; and there appears in its place only the desolate side of a naked heather hill. It is not above sixty years since Glen Urcha has been divested of a superb forest of firs some miles in extent. The timber was bought by a company of Irish adventurers, who paid at the rate of sixpence a tree for such as would now have been valued at five guineas. After having felled the whole of the forest, the purchasers became bankrupt, and dispersed: the overseer of the workmen was hanged at Inverara, for assassinating one of his men. The laird never received the purchase of his timber, and a considerable number of the trees were left upon the spot where they fell, or by the shores of Loch Awe, where they were carried for conveyance, and gradually consumed by the action of the weather. Those mosses where the ancient forests formerly stood, are overspread with the short stocks of trees still standing where they grew. Age has reduced them almost to the core, and the rains and decay of the earth have cleared them of the soil: yet their wasted stumps, and the fangs of their roots, retain their original shape, and stand amid the hollows, the realization of the skeletons of trees in the romance of Leonora. Abundance of these remains of an older world are to be seen in Glen Urcha and its neighbourhood. In Corrai Fhuar, Glen Phinglass, and Glen Eitive, they are met at every step. In the first, a few living firs are yet thriving; but they are surrounded on every side by the shattered stumps, fallen trunks, and blasted limbs of a departed forest.

It is difficult to conceive the sad emotions which are excited by this picture of an aged existence falling without notice, and consuming in the deepest solitude and silence: on every side lie different stages of decay, from the mouldered and barkless stock, half overgrown with grass and moss, to the overturned tree, yet bearing on its crashed limbs the withered leaves of its last summer. In Glen Phinglass there is no longer any living timber; but the remains of that which it once produced are of greater magnitude than those in Corrai Fhuar. In this tract the trees were chiefly oak; firs were, however, intermixed among them, and in the upper part of the glen is the stump of one six feet in diameter. At intervals are stocks of oak from five to seven or eight feet in height; they are all of a great size and age: some are still covered with bark, and yet bear a few stunted shoots; but many are so old, that the mossy earth has grown on one side to their top, and the heath has begun to tuft them over like ivy. In Glen Eitive the remains are less obliterated: many of the scathed and knotted stumps yet bear a thin head of wreathed and dwarfish boughs, and in some places trunks of immense oaks, straight as a mast, yet lie at the foot of the stump from which they were snapped. I know not how to describe the feelings with which I have gazed upon these relics of the ancient forests which once covered the hills, and looked up to the little feathery copse-wood which is all that now remains upon the side of the mountain. What must be the soul of that man who can look upon the change without a thought? who hears the taunts of the stranger revile the nakedness of his land, and who can stand upon his hill and stretch his eye for an hundred miles over the traces of gigantic woods, and say, “This is mine;” and yet ask not the neglected earth for its produce, nor strive to revive the perished glory of his country, and which to be reanimated needs but to be sought?

The success of those who have possessed this patriotism ought to be a source of emulation, and is a monument of reproach to those who do not follow their example. The princely avenues of Inverara, the beautiful woods of Glengarrie, the plantations of Duntroon, and the groves of Athol, must excite in a stranger, admiration; in a native, pride and gratitude—pride in the produce of his country, and gratitude to the noble possessors who have preserved and cherished that which every Scottish proprietor ought to support, the honour and the interest of his fathers’ land.

Mr. Allan’s elegant poem is a “lament” on the desertion of the Highlands by its ancient inhabitants. He says:—

Full often in the valleys still and lone,
The ruins of deserted huts appear.
And here and there grown o’er for many a year,
Half-hidden ridges in the heath are seen,
Where once the delving plough and waving corn had been.

In a note on this stanza, Mr. Allan eloquently depicts the depopulated districts, viz.:—

Upon the narrow banks of lonely streams, amid the solitude of waste moors, in the bosom of desolate glens, and on the eminences of hills given to the foxes and the sheep, are seen the half-mouldered walls of ruined huts, and the mossy furrows of abandoned fields, which tell the existence of a people once numerous and rich. In these melancholy traces of desolation are sometimes seen the remains of eight or twelve houses bereft of their roofs, and mouldering into a promiscuous heap. Upon one farm in the straith of Glen Urcha there were “sixty years since” thirty-seven “smokes;” at this day they are all extinguished, except four. A less extensive but more striking instance of this falling away of the people will still farther illustrate the lines in the poem. I was one evening passing up a solitary glen between Glen Phinglass and Loch Bhoile; the day was fast closing, and wearied with hunting, and at a distance from the inhabited straiths, I wished to discover some house where I might obtain refreshment. As I turned the shoulder of the hill, I came upon a small level plain where four glens met. In the midst stood two cottages, and I hastened forward in the hopes of obtaining a stoup of milk and a barley scone. As I drew near I remarked that no smoke issued from the chimney, no cattle stood in the straith, nor was there any sign of the little green kale yard, which is now found in the precincts of a highland cottage. I was something discouraged by the quiet and desolation which reigned around; but knowing the solitude and poverty of the shepherds of the outward bounds, I was not surprised. At length, however, as I drew near, I saw the heath growing in the walls of the huts, the doors were removed, and the apertures of the windows had fallen into chasms. As I stopped and looked round, I observed a level space which had been once a field: it was yet green and smooth, and the grass-grown ridges of long-neglected furrows were perceivable, retiring beneath the encroaching heather. Familiarity with such objects prevented surprise and almost reflection; but hunger and weariness reminded me not to linger, and I pursued my way towards Loch Bhoile. As I turned into the north-west glen, I again discovered before me a small house by the side of the burn, and the compactitude of its walls and the freshness of its grey roof as the setting sun glinted upon its ridge, assured me that it was not deserted. I hastened onward, but again I was deceived. When I came near, I found that although it had not been so long uninhabited, it was forsaken like the rest: the small wooden windows were half-closed; the door stood open, and moss had crept upon the sill; the roof was grown over with a thick and high crop of long-withered grass: a few half-burnt peats lay in a corner of the hearth, and the smoke of its last fire was yet hanging on the walls. In the narrow sandy path near the door was a worn space, which yet seemed smoothened by the tread of little feet, and showed the half-deranged remains of children’s playhouses built with pebbles and fragments of broken china: the row of stepping-stones yet stood as they had been placed in the brook, but no foot-mark was upon them, and it was doubtless many a day since they had been crossed, save by the foxes of the hill.

[351] Mr. Allan’s poems, the “Bridal of Caölchairn,” the “Last Deer of Beann Doran,” &c. were published by Carpenter, Bond-street, in 1822.

Garrick Plays.
No. XXXIII.

[From the “True Trojans, or Fuimus Troes,” an Historical Play, Author unknown, 1633.]

Invocation of the Druids to the Gods of Britain, on the invasion of Cæsar.

Draw near, ye Heav’nly Powers,
Who dwell in starry bowers;
And ye, who in the deep
On mossy pillows sleep;
And ye who keep the centre,
Where never light did enter;
And ye whose habitations
Are still among the nations,
To see and hear our doings,
Our births, our wars, our wooings;
Behold our present grief
Belief doth beg relief.

By the vervain and lunary,
By fern seed planetary,
By the dreadful misletoe
Which doth on holy oak grow,
Draw near, draw near, draw near.

Help us beset with danger,
And turn away your anger;
Help us begirt with trouble,
And now your mercy double;
Help us opprest with sorrow
And fight for us to-morrow.
Let fire consume the foeman,
Let air infest the Roman,
Let seas intomb their fury,
Let gaping earth them bury.
Let fire, and air, and water,
And earth conspire their slaughter.

By the vervain, &c.

We’ll praise then your great power,
Each month, each day, each hour,
And blaze in lasting story
Your honour and your glory.
High altars lost in vapour,
Young heifers free from labour,
White lambs for suck still crying,
Shall make your music dying,
The boys and girls around,
With honey suckles crown’d;
The bards with harp and rhiming
Green bays their brows entwining,
Sweet tune and sweeter ditty,
Shall chaunt your gracious pity.

By the vervain, &c.

Another, to the Moon.

Thou Queen of Heav’n, Commandress of the deep,
Lady of lakes, Regent of woods and deer;
A Lamp, dispelling irksome night; the Source
Of generable moisture; at whose feet
Wait twenty thousand Naiades!—thy crescent
Brute elephants adore, and man doth feel
Thy force run through the zodiac of his limbs.
O thou first Guide of Brutus to this isle,
Drive back these proud usurpers from this isle.
Whether the name of Cynthia’s silver globe,
Or chaste Diana with a gilded quiver,
Or dread Proserpina, stern Dis’s spouse,
Or soft Lucina, call’d in child-bed throes,
Doth thee delight: rise with a glorious face.
Green drops of Nereus trickling down thy cheeks,
And with bright horns united in full orb
Toss high the seas, with billows beat the banks,
Conjure up Neptune, and th’ Æolian slaves,
Protract both night and winter in a storm,
That Romans lose their way, and sooner land
At sad Avernus’ than at Albion’s strand.
So may’st thou shun the Dragon’s head and tail!
So may Endymion snort on Latmian bed!
So may the fair game fall before thy bow!—
Shed light on us, but light’ning on our foe.

[From the “Twins,” a Comedy, by W. Rider, A. M. 1655.]

Irresolution.

I am a heavy stone,
Rolled up a hill by a weak child: I move
A little up, and tumble back again.

Resolution for Innocence.

My noble mind has not yet lost all shame.
I will desist. My love, that will not serve me
As a true subject, I’ll conquer as an enemy.
O Fame, I will not add another spot
To thy pure robe. I’ll keep my ermine honour
Pure and alive in death; and with my end
I’ll end my sin and shame: like Charicles,
Who living to a hundred years of age
Free from the least disease, fearing a sickness,
To kill it killed himself, and made his death
The period of his health.

[From “Sir Giles Goosecap,” a Comedy, Author Unknown, 1606.]

Friendship in a Lord; modesty in a Gentleman.

Clarence, (to some musicians). Thanks, gentle friends;
Is your good lord, and mine, gone up to bed yet?
Momford. I do assure you not, Sir, not yet, nor yet,
my deep and studious friend, not yet, musical Clarence.
Clar. My Lord—
Mom. Nor yet, then sole divider of my Lordship.
Clar. That were a most unfit division,
And far above the pitch of my low plumes.
I am your bold and constant guest, my Lord.
Mom. Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long,
Almost these twenty years, and half those years
Hast been my bedfellow, long time before
This unseen thing, this thing of nought indeed,
Or atom, call’d my Lordship, shined in me;
And yet thou mak’st thyself as little bold
To take such kindness, as becomes the age
And truth of our indissoluble love,
As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday;
Such is thy gentle and too tender spirit.
Clar. My Lord, my want of courtship makes me fear
I should be rude; and this my mean estate
Meets with such envy and detraction,
Such misconstructions and resolv’d misdooms
Of my poor worth, that should I be advanced
Beyond my unseen lowness but one hair,
I should be torn in pieces by the spirits
That fly in ill-lung’d tempests thro’ the world,
Tearing the head of virtue from her shoulders,
If she but look out of the ground of glory;
’Twixt whom, and me, and every worldly fortune,
There fights such sour and curst antipathy,
So waspish and so petulant a star,
That all things tending to my grace and good
Are ravish’d from their object, as I were
A thing created for a wilderness,
And must not think of any place with men.

[From the “English Monsieur,” a Comedy by the Hon. James Howard, 1674.]

The humour of a conceited Traveller, who is taken with every thing that is French.

English Monsieur. Gentlemen, if you please, let us dine together.

Vaine. I know a cook’s shop, has the best boiled and roast beef in town.

Eng. Mons. Sir, since you are a stranger to me, I only ask you what you mean; but, were you acquainted with me, I should take your greasy proposition as an affront to my palate.

Vaine. Sir, I only meant, by the consent of this company, to dine well together.

Eng. Mons. Do you call dining well, to eat out of a French house.

Vaine. Sir, I understand you as little as you do beef.

Eng. Mons. Why then, to interpret my meaning plainly, if ever you make me such offer again, expect to hear from me next morning—

Vaine. What, that you would not dine with me—

Eng. Mons. No, Sir; that I will fight with you. In short, Sir, I can only tell you, that I had once a dispute with a certain person in this kind, who defended the [II-331,
II-332] English way of eating; whereupon I gent him a challenge, as any man that has been in France would have done. We fought; I killed him: and whereabouts do you think I hit him?

Vaine. I warrant you, in the small guts—

Eng. Mons. I run him through his mistaken palate; which made me think the hand of justice guided my sword.

Eng. Mons. Madam, leading your Ladyship, puts me in mind of France.

Lady. Why, Sir?

Eng. Mons. Because you lead so like French ladies.

Lady. Sir, why look you so earnestly on the ground?

Eng. Mons. I’ll lay a hundred pounds, here has been three English ladies walking up before us.

Crafty. How can you tell, Sir?

Eng. Mons. By being in France.

Crafty. What a devil can he mean?

Eng. Mons. I have often in France observed in gardens, when the company used to walk after a small shower of rain, the impression of the French ladies’ feet. I have seen such bon mien in their footsteps, that the King of France’s Maitre de Daunce could not have found fault with any one tread amongst them all. In this walk I find the toes of the English ladies ready to tread one upon another.

Vaine. Monsieur Frenchlove, well met—

Eng. Mons. I cannot say the like to you, Sir, since I’m told you’ve done a damn’d English trick.

Vaine. In what?

Eng. Mons. In finding fault with a pair of tops I wore yesterday; and, upon my parol, I never had a pair sat better in my life. My leg look’d in ’em not at all like an English leg.

Vaine. Sir, all that I said of your tops was, that they made such a rushing noise as you walk’d, that my mistress could not hear one word of the love I made to her.

Eng. Mons. Sir, I cannot help that; for I shall justify my tops in the noise they were guilty of, since ’twas Alamode of France. Can you say ’twas an English noise.

Vaine. I can say, though your tops were made in France, they made a noise in England.

Eng. Mons. But still, Sir, ’twas a French noise—

Vaine. But cannot a French noise hinder a man from hearing?

Eng. Mons. No, certainly, that’s a demonstration; for, look you, Sir, a French noise is agreeable to the air, and therefore not unagreeable, and therefore not prejudicial, to the hearing; that is to say, to a person that has seen the world.

The Monsieur comforts himself, when his mistress rejects him, that “’twas a denial with a French tone of voice, so that ’twas agreeable:” and, at her final departure, “Do you see, Sir, how she leaves us? she walks away with a French step.”

C. L.