Iona: a romance of the West

Front matter

IONA I O N A: H "Romance of tbe Mest. BY CHRISTABEL SCOTT, AUTHOR OP 'SKETCHES FROM NATURE.' ' It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding, Ye knew not its name, and ye knew not its measure, Ye noted it not 'mid your hope and your pleasure ; There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding, But day-long your bosom now nurseth its treasure.' Wm. Morris : Love is Enough. * The beautiful isles of Greece, full many a bard has sung, The Isles I love best lie far in the West, Where men speak the Gaelic tongue. Ithaca, Cyprus, and Rhodes, are names to the Muses dear, But sweeter still doth Icolmkill Fall on a Scotsman's ear.' Alex. Nicoi.son. jfc LONDON : ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1896. I IONA A ROMANCE OF THE WEST.

Book I

Fair lie the distant islands of the West Upon the bosom of the summer sea ; Bright shine its waters in the mid-day sun — A far expanse of ocean brightly blue, That stretches onward to the great Beyond, An echo of the summer sky above, Which spreads its atmosphere of calm content Over the beauties of a loving world. For Nature has no lovelier mask upon Her face, than that which in the western isles Is shown within the light of summer days. For here the sea and sky are fondly wed In radiant colouring of azure hue ; For here the precipice uplifts its dark And solemn head above the waves below That in the dreaded time of winter storm Do lash themselves against its sullen force. For here the gleaming seagull loves to fly, Iona 2 The heron lifts her stately head upon The shining strand of some long, narrow bay ; The curlew, with its swift and graceful flight ; The gloomy cormorant, and startled flock Of swift mergansers by the water-side — All love the solitudes of these far isles.

Who can but love these distant Hebrides, If Nature finds an echo in his soul ? Who cannot but admire this group of isles, From fertile Islay and proud Jura's peaks To where the rocks of Mull gleam red and bright, And Cuchullin gleams against the northern sky ? Who looks unmoved on great Iona's isle, Green like a jewel on the summer sea, From whence the blessing of our Christian faith, Outspread through many dark and heathen lands, Like the great sea that beats upon its shores Is borne through countless waves by wind and tide Unto the margin of a distant shore? And further north see raised against the sky That sharp and jagged line of dark set rock, Great Cuchullin's monarch peaks which rear their heads, A beauteous group of vagrant lights and shades, That play at twilight 'mid their rocky scenes, Or seen in distance like a range of blue, Shading at even to the darker hue Of brilliant purple, or gay amethyst.

For lit by radiance of the setting sun, Within the paler gleam of northern sky, They raise their giant heads in saw-like line, Above the beauty of this fairest scene, ■» Iona Amid the verdure of the Isle of Skye. And further west behold those stretching sands, Bright with the hue of many-coloured flowers, Upon far Uist's stormy western shores. There is no land with such variety Of sea and shore as in these Hebrides. For fair as mountains are in other lands, And bright the stretch of ocean dimly bound By southern shores, and swelled by southern tides. Yet in these sea-girt islands of the west, We find the dark and everlasting hills Encircled by the ever-moving sea, And see the heavens of this weeping clime, Enriched by all the wealth of atmosphere That sheds its glory over hill and sky ! Behold the glowing streaks of red and gold That mark the sunset in departing day, And watch the twilight shadows flitting o'er The darkened sky, and on the silent sea.

Oh ! Nature has been lavish in her gifts Of beauty and of form within these scenes ! So thought a stranger artist as he stood Upon the swiftly steaming pleasure boat Which bore him nearer to Iona's shores. The little island lay a stretch of green, Surrounded by the ever-changing sea, That lapped against its dark and rocky shores With gentle greeting on this summer day. And yet the jagged rocks' uplifted teeth Could tell of winter tempests now unknown Upon these calm and peaceful seas of June. Iona 4 Blue all around him, blue within the sky, And on the waste of waters flowing to The unknown shadows of a world beyond ; Blue where the heavens touch the gleaming sea, In seeming nearness to our narrow sight, Blue were the distant islands in the scene, The thirty islands visible from here, Where great Columba raised his flag of Faith, A beacon in the dark surrounding night Of heathendom that flooded pagan lands, To warn the people from the hidden rocks Of ignorance and fatal unbelief — Like as that gleaming flash set to the south, Dubh-Artach lighthouse with its gleam of red, Doth warn the sailors from the rocks ahead.

See to the north the scattered Treshnish Isles, The Dutchman's Cap with high uplifted crown, With Fladda, Lunga, and great Staffa's Isle, Its two dark eyelets set upon its shores, The quaint Clamshell, and giant Fingal's Cave. See gentle Ulva nestling to the side Of Mull's uplifted peaks, with great Ben More That shadows dark Loch Scridain's rocky shores. See yonder waterfalls that night and day Pour ceaseless torrents down the terraced sides Of that steep hill which guards Bunessan's Bay ; Great Bourg, with its double fall of spray. And then the group of rock-bound smaller isles, Inch-Kenneth, and the smaller Colonsay, Are safe retreats for many ocean birds. Far to the north, amid the brighter blue, Iona 5 Are distant Canna, and the hills of Rum ; The western limit shows a curious scene, Two islands, yet they seem as many more, So flat the pastures of Tiree and Coll.

For as the world on which we stand is round, So to our narrow boundary of sight They seem to dip their valleys in the sea. And in Iona, what a scene is here ! This ruddy pile of ruined sculptured stone, That rears its arches to the sunlit sky, A monument of time when men thought meet To give their best unto the house of God (Not as in later days of wild unrest) ; When stone was raised on stone by patient hands, When subtle tracery of holy thought Was carved around the pillars of the church — A work of love that took perchance a long, And lonely lifetime to complete. And in This narrow isle of hardly three miles long, There lies a wealth of noble dust such as We cannot think of but with reverence. The dust of sixty noble kings is laid Within the Reilig Oran to their rest. The silent forms of many Highland chiefs, Borne from the isles of distant Hebrides Across the waters of the stormy sea, Found in this isle a holy resting-place.

The great MacLeans, who in those murderous times Waged furious battle on their neighbouring clans, Must mix their dust in saintly harmony With fatal foe, as with their dearest friend, Iona Amid the graves of great Icolmkill.* The fierce MacLeods from distant Isle of Skye Are laid in front the very altar stone ; Lord of the Isles, MacQuarrie and Kintail, All lay their bones within the sacred ground. But further still, through thirteen hundred years, Comes the remembrance of a greater band. Here great Columba was consigned to rest ; Beside him lies his ever faithful monk, Whose ashes still remain, although the dust Of sainted Columb has been borne away. Saint Oran's sacred resting-place is found Within a chapel built unto his name By good Queen Margaret in a later day. How few among the daily flowing stream Of foreigners that flood Iona's isle Do seek to realize or understand The spot on which they stand is holy ground !

The flood of tourists on a summer's day, The ignorant remarks, and foolish talk, Astonish those who are of sterner mind, And realize its great solemnity. Upon this summer day of which I write, The pleasure-boat had launched her motley crew In smaller crafts upon the summer sea. The little granite pier was reached, while near There shone the waters of the Martyr's Bay, Below the sacred swan-likes mount of death. * Icolmkill = Iona. t Swan-like —a mound called ' Eila,' or mount of the swan, is a grassy knoll on which all coffins were laid after being landed on the island so that the bearers might be refreshed before proceeding lo the Reihg Oran, or Royal burying-place. Iona 7 talk Among the passengers who landed here Were two I must describe, because they bear A foremost part within my simple tale.

The first — a manly fellow, tall and strong, Seemed used to Highland ways and Highland I The sailors greeted him upon the shore With cheerfulness in kindly Gaelic tongue, And down the narrow single sea-girt street The children gave him welcome home again. A ruddy, sunburnt, Island man was he, And contrast to his neighbour by his side, Who, by his face, was half of foreign birth, So dark the colour 'neath his sun-browned skin His mother was of partly Spanish blood — So deep the lustre in his brilliant eyes, That seemed the lamp unto his pallid face. Tall as the other, yet he seemed not so, By reason of a stoop begot by work, And study, through his eight-and-twenty years. A greater contrast could be hardly seen Than in these two. The one a Hercules Of creature force, but wanting intellect — The other but a stripling of his race, Yet with deep intellect and cultured grace, And keen intelligence upon his brow.

Clement de-Vigne, a son of noble race, With keen æsthetic tendency, had been An artist from his first remembered days. What mattered it his pictures seldom sold ? He would not perjure earnestness for gain, Though fashion dictates by a subtle sign, What is, and shall be bidden of the world. Iona He could not live except for art, although His genius sometimes walked in other ways Than that depicted by the painter's brush- In sister paths of poesy and song. And what brings Clement to Iona now ? What but the love of beauty and of art ? Within the studio of an artist friend In Glasgow's sooty, unromantic streets, He met this r.ative of the holy isle, Allan MacLean, the isleman by his side, With whom we find him now returning home. He knew not where to go for holidays : It was suggested that among these isles There was fair substance for a world of art, And so it happens that we find to-day These two beside the little whitened gate That leads to Allan's neat but humble home. ' And do you live alone within this lonely isle ?' Said Clement, as they wandered slowly on. ' No, sir,' he answered, ' I am not alone.

My sister lives with me, but she is not My mother's daughter, for my father, he Was married twice, and for the second time He chose an Irishwoman for his wife. She was a gentle creature, far too soft For the rough climate of our Northern land ; But yet she loved this little isle of ours, And called her daughter by its holy name. I think that Saint Columba, whom they talk So much about, he was from Ireland too, And she was fain to come to where he lived. Iona 9 She died, it may be fifteen years ago, When poor Iona was but five years old, And now my father, too, has gone to rest, And we are left alone within our home.' MacLean had pushed the gate in front of him And led the way unto the little house, Whose windows looked direct upon the sea. He said, ' I'll call my sister, sir, to see How best we can accommodate our guest.' Then Clement looked around him in the room, Artistic with a true simplicity, When through the open door there came at last A maiden, ' tall and most divinely fair.' A maiden humbly born, yet with an air That spoke of lineage of Norwegian kings, Who in the years of far barbaric past Had landed on Iona's fertile shores.

Her hair was almost flaxen in its shade, Yet where it lay in twisted gleaming coils, Close to the contour of her shapely head, It seemed a redder gold than those fair curls Which clustered on her fair and open brow. A straight-cut nose, her mouth a trifle large Perhaps for beauty in its strictest sense, But with such tempting rosy lips, that love Found true embodiment within her smile. Within the healthy radiance of her cheek There glowed a colour clear of red and white — Her eyes as blue as Heaven's sunlit gate, Shaded by lashes of a darker hue, Had innocence and love within their depths. Iona 10 Such was Iona, as she stood abashed Before the earnest gaze of Clement's eyes ; She spoke, her voice with simple Highland tone — Softening the consonants and drawing out The vowels to their more than usual length — He thought he never heard so sweet a voice Break from the roses of such charming lips. ' What will you have, sir, for you must be tired From such a lengthy journey on the sea ?' He did not hurry to the holy ruins, Amid the flock of tourists gathered there.

Why should he spoil romance and sacred thoughts By mixing 'mid a herd of those who seemed To him a desecration of this place ? Had he not time enough and still to spare, Within the circling hours of summer days, To wander 'neath the ruined arches when No voice was near to break upon his dreams, Nor trivial utterance to stunt his mind When on that voyage of historic thought To times divided from our later days By thirteen hundred years of time and change ? So while the crowd was scattered o'er the green, Where Great St. Martin's Cross stood proudly high, Close to the mount of blessing where was breathed That prophecy from Great Columba's lips, ' That far and great should be Iona's fame ;' So when the wanderers were gathered there, In twos and threes around the faithful guide, Who told tradition of the ruined church — Iona 11 Still Clement did not join them.

He preferred To wander forth along that narrow road That leadeth to those shifting banks of sand Which bound Iona on the northward side. And here the eye can stretch o'er miles of sea, A field of quite unbroken blue, save where Some truant wave has raised its eager head With snowy crest above the tranquil calm Of deep unshadowed azure stretching far ; Or where the many islands break the line Of this most dazzling and irradiant blue. So Clement watched the wavelets as they broke With gentle murmur on the rocky shore, That looked so black against the whitened sand Which winter storms had drifted o'er the land. What meant this unaccustomed solitude In which a passing chance had placed him now ? And yet he thought — there's plenty food for art Amid those ruddy piles of ruined stone, Or here within this fascinating scene Of beauteous ocean and surrounding hills.

And as he thought, he traced a written name Amid the heaps of finely-shifting sand : ' Maud ' — he had written, when he fiercely drew His stick right through the simple little name. ' No, no,' he cried ; ' away with noble dames, And hothouse flowers within this living world ! For here is Nature unalloyed and pure, With no distracting "world " to blot her face, Or spoil the peace of what were happiness, But for the petty barriers of life. Iona 12 See, I will sun myself in Nature's smiles, And drink the nectar of her simple cup. Come, shining sea, and glowing mountain-peaks, And teach me how to live a fuller life ; Come, widen my horizon with the breath That rusheth landward from the open sea ; Embrace my life within thy noble arms, Teach me to live in ecstasy of thought, With range of mind as distant as that line Of glorious mountain ever soaring high ; Teach me to grow in fancy wide and bright As yonder ocean stretching to the west Until its waters do embrace the sky.

So shall I learn from Nature's wider view The foolish limits of this narrow world, And grow in stature both of heart and soul.' Still later in the evening of that day, When twilight shades were deepening into night If that indeed be called night which seems But darker twilight through the midnight hours, Within the long unending days of June, In this far country of a northern clime — Within that harmony of night and day, The twilight of a dewy summer eve, Did Clement climb the little hill Dunii To watch the sunset radiant o'er the sea — A ball of fire amid the gorgeous clouds That lay like fleece of gold against the sky. Oh, what a picture for an artist's brush ! It seemed as if the heavens had disclosed Iona 13 1 Their wealth of golden street and jewelled gates Unto the gaze of unbelieving man.

For see the lines of amethyst and gold Against the azure of the turquoise sky That formed the setting for these wondrous gems And see the mountains changing as the sun Sinks deeper 'neath the far horizon line ; Their paler blue is now an amethyst, And now bright purple of a deeper hue. But Clement felt 'twould be a thankless task To paint such scenes for unaccustomed eyes. ' They never would believe,' he said aloud, ' That such a vivid colouring exists, Save in the image of my fertile brain.' And when the sun had set he wandered down Close by the ruins of the Abbey church. The moon had risen o'er the distant hills, And hung a ball of light between two worlds, Irradiating earth and slumbering sea, And gleaming on the waters of the sound With brilliance as of glittering diamonds. While on the stern, majestic, ruined church It shone as with a radiance sanctified, And cast its ghost-like shadows o'er its walls.

Then Clement laughed unto himself and said, ' I'll brave the ghost of any wandering monk To see the ruined beauties of this church In this romantic and poetic light.' And so he entered through the narrow gate, And found himself upon the smooth green sward Whereon St. Martin's Cross has stood erect Iona 14 j For longer than our history can tell, It may be for eleven hundred years, Or some have said twelve centuries of time. But Clement passed it carelessly to-night ; He would awake the echoes of the dead, And penetrate within the ruined walls. Hark ! what is that ? a sudden whirring sound, A flock of birds has flown from out the tower, A crowd of noisy jackdaws, and their flight Flits like a shadow o'er the silver moon. He started, and then laughed at his dismay. The ghosts were surely black and quick of flight !

But what is that sustained and longer sound ? No birds this time, but some sweet woman's voice, Singing a melody of evening hymn ; ' Oh for the wings, the wings of a dove ! Far, far away would I rove, In the wilderness build me a nest, And remain there for ever at rest' As Clement listened to the bird-like voice, He laughed and said, ' 'Tis by some strange mistake I must have come into the nunnery, And this must be some wandering sainted nun, Come back to sing amid these well-known scenes. And yet I thought this was the Abbey church ; But how can even ghostly nuns intrude Within the privacy of sterner monks ?' Thus laughing to himself, the artist walked Straight through the nave, beneath the roofless tower But there he saw a sight he ne'er forgot, Iona 15 For leaning 'gainst an ancient Abbot's tomb, The moonlight shining on her upturned face, Clear cut against the ruined Gothic arch Of yonder window looking to the east, And through the empty aperture of which The moon showed clear against the darkening sky — Near where the holy altar once had stood, Was seen to-night a form ; no ghostly nun, But sweet Iona's purest flesh and blood.

She looked, indeed, like some unearthly thing In this transforming light of summer moon, Clad in some garment of a glistening grey, That seemed yet paler in the silvery light, Her golden hair in curls about her head, Like some fair aureole on sainted brow. She started as the stranger ventured near ; She had not heard his footsteps with her song. ' Fear not,' he said, ' I am no wandering ghost, Although I thought at first you might be so. You must be brave to venture here alone In pale moonlight, amid these haunted scenes.' ' Be brave !' she said, ' why should I be afraid ? There's nothing that can harm me here.' She looked So fair a picture that it seemed as if No thing could harm her on this mortal earth. She seemed ensheathed in heavenly armour bright, And wore the breastplate of a trusting soul. ' I fain would sketch you as I see you now,' Said Clement, half as to himself.

Indeed, She were fit model for a noble sketch : A face refined by Nature was divine Iona 16 Within this vision of romantic light. The moon lent subtle grace unto her form By lengthening shadows, yet disclosing full The snowy purity of neck and brow, The rounded outline of her bosom, and The winsome curves about her graceful waist. Her dress, as plain as any Puritan's, Fit closely to her figure, and displayed Its rounded outlines to the best effect. His mind had grasped the picture at a glance ; He said again, ' I would — an' if I could.' Iona said, ' 'Tis true the Abbey church Is fittest model for an artist's brush. But I should not increase its beauty, sir, By standing here ; I should be out of place Beside the monuments of noble dead. But have you seen,' she quickly said (to change A subject which had seemed of some offence), ' The tombs and chapels of this ruined church ?' ' No,' Clement answered, ' and I fain would see The many wonders of the holy place.' 'To-morrow, then,' she said, 'I'll tell the guide' — But Clement quickly said, ' Why not to-night ?

The moon shines bright as any summer sun, And lovelier far — and be yourself my guide.' She answered shyly, ' But you cannot see The carvings round the pillars by this light.' ' And that will keep for some less favoured hour ; So come,' he said, 'and be my spirit guide.' And so she led him o'er the moonlit ruins, Through darkest transept, 'neath the ruined tower, Iona 17 lor By secret passage and confession-box,* Unto the cloister shades, where years ago The studious monks had wandered, book in hand, And meditated on those greater days Of Saint Columba and his little band ; By grass-grown stones and 'neath the only arch That now remaineth of the cloister walk Unto the gloomy chapter-house, then by The great refectory and through the door To where the tombs and open coffins lay Which once had held the great and sacred dust Of Saint Columba and his servant monk.

Thus in the moonlight did they wander on, By broken crosses and through roofless nave, By ruined aisles and sacred sacristy, The girl explaining all the history, Until at last they reached the very place Where he had seen her stand, and heard her sing Her modern anthem to these ancient stones. ' You stand upon the very grave,' she said, ' Of fierce MacLeods from distant Isle of Skye. And there beside you is the Abbot's tomb — Abbot Mackinnon, last of all his kind ; And here lies Abbot Kenneth, second last. Here stood the altar once upon a time, And here beneath the eastern window lies Columba's sainted pillow of a stone, Marked with the signal of a Holy Cross. But now,' she said, ' 'tis truly late, I fear; * A small recess in the wall, which tradition says was used this purpose. Iona . I must go homewards : but before I go, I'll show you what is dearest to me here, And that is great St. Martin's Cross. 'Tis true, The cross you see beside the narrow road, And called MacLean's, is older far, they say ; But there is something so supreme and strong Within this monument that seems to say, " I stand here and defy Eternity, Because I am the emblem of its Faith.'" And as she spoke the girl had thrown her arm, Her warm and living arm, about the base Of this grand monument of senseless stone, And stood in all her youth and innocence, A living soul, so beautiful and pure, She seemed a blossom sent from fairer worlds. ' And now,' she said, ' I'll bid you, sir, good-night,

Book II

Call ! sea-birds, over the sea To where my lady hears ; Go ! whisper loving words from me Unto her willing ears ; Call her with your softest notes, Awake ! awake ! And tune the discord of your throats For her dear sake. Fly ! sea-birds, over the fields My lady loveth best ; The sky shall darken when she yields Her virgin soul to rest. Guard her with your outspread wings, So fair, so fair, That we may listen while she sings Her evening prayer. Watch ! sea-birds, over the home Wherein my lady sleeps ; Go ! deck her couch with ocean foam From out the mighty deeps ; Iona 20 Tell her what I may not say, Arise ! arise ! And night shall blossom as the day Within her eyes. Clement {tog.). I love an island, for there seems a breadth Of God and Nature everywhere, one findeth Not ashore ; I love the widening stretch Of sea that meets the eye in one long sweep Of dazzling blue, until the radiant sky Embrace the sea on the horizon line, And onward seem to glide together, Ever distant, yet so seeming near, Until the waters touch that distant shore Which we may call eternity.

The stretch Of ocean seems so near and yet so far, That one might glide unconsciously from life's Unknown horizon to the dim and distant Land beyond the sea. One seemeth nearer Death, and therefore nearer life, upon an Island than elsewhere. The treach'rous waters Of that blue and brilliant sea can break their calm Into a thousand jets of foaming spray Uplifted by the seething depths below. The bright and tranquil sheet of glittering blue Can show a thousand waves of chilly gray, Iona 22 . Each following other close upon the track, And lashing furiously against the cliffs That overhang the depths below ; and these Same cliffs but seem an easy form of death To one distracted by the cares of life. There is a rapture in their very height When, standing high upon the dizzy verge, We look into the dusky gloom below Of darkening waters overhung by great And mighty rocks ; the constant flashing flight Of myriad sea-birds, and their wild and eerie cries But seem to lure the restless, fretful soul Unto destruction's dizzy depths.

Methought The other day, when first I stepped upon This isle, it seemed a spot of blessed rest And peace unto my weary soul. And yet My life is called fortunate. And so It is when I look down the stream of changeful Use, Alive with pain and misery, to those most Dreary depths, where horrors are so black One may not look unto their dreadfulness. I had been fortunate, were I not born Beneath an undecided star. Some men Are born 'neath planets ; true and fixed lights Of perseverance with one goal in view, One steady purpose of both mind and soul. But my star twinkled when I oped mine eyes Upon this world of sin. And thus I am Erratic, never fixed in aught, nor set Unto a given purpose. And my life Is like my parent star, and scintillates Iona 23 Betwixt two worlds, it seems of life and death ; The world of art and truth, and that false show Which calls itself the world, and will have me Accepted for its child, because I am The child of Fortune.

Yes, I seem to have A fortunate career, a world of youth, Health, money, hosts of friends — as men call friends, Though later days may see them scattered round Like fallen leaves in 'mid October. Yet Autumn winds have left some clinging to the branch, So to the meanest of us God has left A friend. For I am most an enemy Unto myself. Born with a share of brains — A paltry share, 'tis true, and yet the world Accounts it greater than its worth — perchance It were worth counting had it been bestowed In one direction, or inclined to run Within one channel through the stream of life. E'en trickling streamlets form a mighty deep, When nature suffers them to meet within One strength. I have no density of power, And born beneath a twinkling star, I have No fixity of aim, nor purpose set. I sign myself an artist, yet my pen Is oft as busy as my brush.