There is an affinity between persons and places, but the Loch Awe that won my affection exists no longer. What delighted me was the complete unity of character that prevailed there, the lonely magnificent mountains, the vast expanse of water only crossed occasionally by some poor open boat, the melancholy ruins on island or peninsula, the wilderness, the sadness, the pervading sense of solitude, a solitude peopled only with traditions of a romantic past. It was almost as lonely as some distant lake in the wilds of Canada that the Indian crosses in his canoe, yet its ruined castles gave a poetry that no American waters can ever possess. Such was Loch Awe that I loved with the melancholy affection of youth before the experience of life had taught me a more active and practical philosophy than the indulgence in the sweet sadness of these reveries. But Loch Awe of to-day and of the future is as modern and practical as the sea-lochs that open upon the Clyde. On my first visit in 1852 there was neither steamer nor sailing-boat; now there are fourteen steamers on the lake, four of them public, and the railway trains pass round the skirts of Cruachan and rush through the Brandir Pass. There is a big hotel, they tell me, just opposite Kilchurn, from which place, by express train, you can get to Edinburgh in four hours.
The day after our arrival at Loch Awe turned out to be most beautiful (a fine day in the Highlands seems, by contrast, far more beautiful than elsewhere), and I shall never forget the enchantment of the head of Loch Awe as our carriage slowly descended the hilly road from Cladich towards Dalmally, stopping frequently for me to look and sketch. When we got near the island, or peninsula, of Innistrynich, with its dark green oaks and pasture-laud of a brighter green in the sunshine, and gray rocks coming down into the calm, dark water, it seemed to my northern taste the realization of an earthly paradise. I have lived upon it since, and unwillingly left it, and to this day I have the most passionate affection for it, and often dream about it painfully or pleasurably, the most painful dream of all being that it has been spoiled by the present owner, which happily is quite the contrary of the truth.
I went to Oban on the top of the coach in the most brilliant weather that ever is or can be, alternate sunshine and rain, with white clouds of a dazzling brightness. Under this enchantment, the barren land of Lorne seemed beautiful, and one forgot its poverty. For the first time, I saw the waters of Loch Etive, then a pale blue, stretching far inland, and the distant hills of Morven were, or seemed to be, of the purest azure.
When my new friends had left me at Oban, I hired a sailing-boat and two men for a voyage amongst the Western Isles; but as she was an open boat, the men did not like the idea of risking our lives in her on the exposed waters of the Atlantic, so the voyage was confined to the Sound of Mull, and I crossed the island to its western shore on foot. That voyage left permanent recollections of grand effects and wild scenery of the kind afterwards described by William Black in his "Macleod of Dare." As we sailed across the Sound in the evening from Oban to Auchincraig, the sky was full of torn rain-clouds flying swiftly and catching the lurid hues from the sunset, whilst the distant mountains and cliffs of Mull were of that dark purple which seems melancholy and funereal in landscape, though it is one of the richest colors in the world. It was dangerous weather for sailing, being very squally, and in the year 1852 I knew nothing about the management of sailing-boats; but the men were not imprudent, and after coasting under the cliffs of Mull we landed at Auchincraig, where at that time there was a miserable inn. The next day we had a glorious sail up the sound to the Bay of Aros, stopping only to see Duart Castle. In walking across the island to Loch na Keal, we passed through a most picturesque camp, that would have delighted Landseer. There were hundreds of horses and innumerable dogs of the picturesque northern breeds. It was the half-yearly market of Mull.
I shall never forget my first sight of Ulva, as we sat on the shore of Mull waiting for the ferry-boat. Ulva lay, a great dark mass, under the crimson west, reflected in a glassy sea. We had already seen Staffa and Iona, pale in the distant Atlantic. Then the boat fetched us, and we floated as in a poet's dream, till the worst of inns brought one back to a sense of reality.
The boatman who accompanied me, whose name was Andrew, amused himself by telling lies to the credulous inhabitants of Ulva, and one of his inventions was that I was going to purchase the island. The other boatman, Donald, slept in the boat at Salan, wrapped up in a sail. The return voyage to Oban is thus described in my journal:—
"A fine young man asked me for a seat in the boat, which I granted on condition that he would perform his share of the work. A favorable wind carried us well over fifteen miles, half our distance, and the rest had to be rowed. The sun set in crimson, and the crescent moon arose behind the blue hills of Mull, over the dark tower of Duart. The scene was shortly a festival of lights with stars in the sky and the water brilliantly phosphorescent, so that the oar seemed to drip with fire. Lastly, when we entered the smooth bright bay of Oban, a crescent of lights shone around it, reflected in columns of flame upon the surface."
These were my chief experiences of the West Highlands during that first tour, and they left what I believe to be an indelible impression, for to this day I remember quite distinctly under what kind of effect each of these scenes presented itself. The artistic results of the tour consisted of sketches in oil and pencil, quite without value except to remind me of the scenes passed through, and of the most decidedly amateur character. I also wrote a journal, interesting to me now for the minute details it contains, which bring the past back to me very vividly, but utterly without literary merit. The wonder is how a youth with so little manifest talent as may be found in these sketches and journal could indulge in any artistic or literary ambition. My impression is that the dull year of heavy work that I had gone through with the Yorkshire tutor had done positive harm to me. Besides this, I was living, intellectually, in great solitude. My guardian was very kind, and she was a woman of sterling good sense, but she knew nothing about the fine arts, nor could she afford me much guidance in my reading, her own reading being limited to the Bible, and to some English and French classics. My uncles were both extremely reserved men who did not encourage my questions, so I was left for a while to get on without other intellectual assistance than that afforded by books. My eldest uncle, the owner of Hollins, said one day to my guardian, "Buy him the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica,' it will prevent him from asking so many questions;" so she made the purchase, which gave me a large pasture, at least for facts, and as for good literature, my little library was beginning to be well stocked. I made no attempt at that time to keep up my Latin and Greek, nor did I work seriously at painting, but read, drew, and wrote very much as it happened, not subjecting myself to any rigorous discipline, yet never remaining unoccupied.
CHAPTER XVII.
1853.