The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 30

His injuries to the skull were terrible. Two medical men besides myself despaired of his life. But above him, a few steps up the stairs, and lying across them half asleep and unhurt, lay the doer of the deed.

Oh! what a sermon against the insinuating horribleness of intoxicating drink did the whole scene present!

The Morning of the Games.

It is going to be a beautiful day, that is evident. White fleecy clouds are constantly driving over the sun on the wings of a south-east wind.

Bands of music have been coming from every direction all the morning.

They bring volunteers, and they bring their clansmen and the heroes who will soon take part in the coming struggle.

Now Highland gatherings and games, such as I am describing, are very ancient inst.i.tutions indeed in Scotland I have no reference book near me from which to discover how old they are. But in "the '45" last century, as most of my readers are probably aware, a great gathering of the clans took place among the Highland hills, presumably to celebrate games, but in reality to draw the claymore of revolt and to fight for Royal Charlie. They will know also how sadly this rebellion ended on the blood-red field of Culloden Moor.

During the summer and autumn seasons nearly every country district in the north has its great Highland gathering; but the two chief ones are Braemar and Inverness. The latter is called the northern meeting, and has a park retained all the year round for it. At Braemar, the Queen and Royal family hardly ever fail to put in an appearance.

The clans, arrayed in all the pomp and panoply of their war-dress, in "the garb of old Gaul," each wearing its own tartan, each headed by its own chieftain, come from almost every part of the north-eastern Highlands to Braemar with banners floating and bagpipes playing, a spirit-stirring sight to see.

The ground on which the games take place is entirely encircled by a rope fence, and near are the white tents of the officers in charge, the various refreshment-rooms, and the grand stand itself. The whole scene is enlivening in the extreme; the dense crowd of well-dressed people around the ropes, the stand filled tier on tier with royalty, youth, and beauty, the white canvas, the gaily-fluttering flags, the mixture of tartans, the picturesque dresses, the green gra.s.s, the cloud-like trees, and last, but not least, the wild and rugged mountains themselves--the effect of the whole is charming, and would need the pen of a Walter Scott to do justice to it.

But to return to the games about to begin before me. Crowds are already beginning to a.s.semble and surround the ropes, and independent of the grand stand, there are on this ground several round green hills, which give lounging-room to hundreds, who thus, reclining at their ease, can view the sports going on beneath them.

I am lying at full length on the top of my caravan, a most delightful position, from which I can see everything. Far down the field a bra.s.s band is discoursing a fantasia on old Scottish airs. But the effect is somewhat marred, for this reason--on the gra.s.s behind the grand stand, with truly Scottish independence of feeling, half-a-dozen pipers are strutting about in full Highland dress, and with gay ribbons fluttering from their chanters, while their independence is more especially displayed in the fact that every piper is playing the tune that pleases himself best, so that upon the whole it must be confessed that at present the music is of a somewhat mixed character.

From the top of my caravan I call to my gentle Jehu John, _alias_ my coachman, who comes from the s.h.i.+re of bonnie Berks.

"John," I shout, "isn't that heavenly music? Don't you like it, John?

Doesn't it stir your blood?"

Now John would not offend my national feelings for all the world; so he replies,--

"It stirs the blood right enough, sir, but I can't say as 'ow I likes it quite, sir. Dessay it's an acquired taste, like olives is. Puts me in mind of a swarm o' bees that's got settled on a telegraph pole."

But the games are now beginning. Brawny Scots, tall, wiry Highlanders, are already trying the weights of the great caber, the stones, and the hammers. So I get down off my caravan, and, making my way to the field, seat myself on a green knoll from which I can see and enjoy everything.

_Throwing the Heavy Hammer_.--This is nearly always the first game. The compet.i.tors, stripped to the waist, toe the line one after the other, and try their strength and skill, the judges after each throw being ready with the tape. Though an ordinary heavy hammer will suit any one for amateur practice, the real thing is a large ball fastened to the end of a long handle of hard, tough wood.

It is balanced aloft and swung about several times before it quits the hands of Hercules, and comet-like flies through the air with all the velocity and force that can be communicated to it.

Donald Dinnie, though he wants but two years of being fifty, is still the champion athlete and wrestler of the world. There is a good story told of Donald when exhibiting his prowess for the first time in America. The crowd it seems gave him a too limited ring. They did not know Donald then.

"Gang back a wee bit!" cried Donald.

The ring was widened.

"Gang back a wee yet?" he roared.

The crowd spread out. But when a third time Donald cried "Gang back!"

they laughed in derision.

Then Donald's Scotch blood got up. He swung the great hammer--it left his hands, and flew right over the heads of the onlookers, alighting in the field beyond.

No one in San Francisco would compete with Donald, so he got the records of other athletes, and at a public exhibition beat them all.

Throwing the light hammer is another game of the same kind.

_Putting the Stone_.--The stone, as an Irishman would say, is a heavy round iron ball. You plant the left foot firmly in advance of the right, then balancing the great stone or ball on the palm of the right hand on a level with the head for a few moments, you send it flying from you as far as possible. There is not only great strength required, but a good deal of "can," or skill, which practice alone can give.

_Tossing the Caber_.--The caber is a small tree, perhaps a larch with the branches all off. You plant your foot against the thin end of it, while a man raises it right up--heavy end uppermost--and supports it in the air until you have bent down and raised it on your palms. The immense weight of it makes you stagger about to keep your balance, and you must toss it so that when the heavy end touches the ground, it shall fall right over and lie in a line towards you. This game requires great skill and strength, and it is seldom indeed that more than one man succeeds in tossing the caber fair and square.

There are heavy and light hammers, there are heavy and light putting-stones, but there is but one caber [at princ.i.p.al games], and at this game the mighty Donald Dinnie has no rival.

The jumping and vaulting approach more to the English style of games, and need not be here described; and the same may be said about the racing, with probably one exception--the sack race. The compet.i.tors have to don the sacks, which are then tied firmly round the neck, then at the given signal away they go, hopping, jumping, or running with little short steps. It is very amusing, owing to the many tumbles the runners get, and the nimble way they sometimes recover the equilibrium, though very often no sooner are they up than they are down again.

There usually follows this a mad kind of steeplechase three times round the course, which is everywhere impeded with obstructions, the favourite ones being soda-barrels with both ends knocked out. Through these the compet.i.tors have to crawl, if they be not long-legged and agile enough to vault right over them.

The dancing and the bagpipe-playing attract great attention, and with these the games usually conclude. At our sports to-day both are first-cla.s.s.

The dancing commences with a sailor's hornpipe in character, and right merrily several of the compet.i.tors foot it on the floor of wood that has been laid down on the gra.s.s for the purpose. Next comes the Highland fling, danced in Highland dress, to the wild "skirl" of the great Highland bagpipe. Then the reel of Tulloch to the same kind of music.

Here there are of course four Highlanders engaged at one time.

I hope, for the sake of dear auld Scotland, none of my readers will judge the music of the Highland bagpipes from the performances of the wretched specimens of ragged humanity sometimes seen in our streets.

But on a lovely day like this, amidst scenery so sublime, it is really a pleasure to lie on the gra.s.s and listen to the stirring war march, the hearty strathspey or reel, the winning pibroch, or the sad wail of a lament for the dead.

Few who travel by train past the village or town of Auchterarder have the faintest notion what the place is like. "It is set on a hill," that is all a train traveller can say, and it looks romantic enough.

But the country all round here, as seen by road, is more than romantic, it is wildly beautiful.

Here are some notes I took in my caravan just before coming to this town. My reason for giving them now will presently be seen.

"Just before coming to Auchterarder we cross over a hill, from which the view is singularly strange and lovely. Down beneath us is a wide strath or glen, rising on the other side with gentle slope far upwards to the horizon, with a bluff, bare, craggy mountain in the distance. But it is the arrangement and shape of the innumerable dark spruce and pinewoods that strike the beholder as more than curious. They look like regiments and armies in battle array--ma.s.sed in _corps d'armee_ down in the hollow, and arranged in battalions higher up; while along the ridge of yonder high hill they look like soldiers on march; on a rock they appear like a battery in position, and here, there, and everywhere between, e'en long lines of skirmishers, taking advantage of every shelter."

It was not until Monday morning that I found out from the kindly Aberuthven farmer, in whose yard I had bivouacked over the Sunday, that I had really been describing in my notes a plan of the great battle of Waterloo. The woods have positively been planted to represent the armies in action.

Had not this farmer, whom we met at the village, invited us to his place, our bivouac over the Sunday would have been on the roadside, for at Aberuthven there was no accommodation for either horses or caravan.

But the hospitality and kindnesses I meet with everywhere are universal.

The morning of the 17th of August was grey and cloudy, but far from cold. Bidding kindly Farmer M--and his family good-bye, we went trotting off, and in a short time had crossed the beautiful Earn, and then began one of the longest and stiffest ascents we had ever experienced.

A stiff pull for miles with perspiring horses; but once up on the braeland above this wild and wonderful valley the view was indescribably fine. The vale is bounded by hills on every side, with the lofty Ben Voirloch far in the rear.

The Earn, broad, clear, and deep, goes winding through the level and fertile bottom of the valley, through fields where red and white cattle are grazing, through fields of dark-green turnips, and fields yellow with ripening barley. And yonder, as I live, is a railway train, but so far away, and so far beneath us, that it looks like a mere mechanical toy.

High up here summer still lingers. We are among hedgerows once more and wild roses; the banks beneath this are a sight. We have thistles of every shade of crimson, and the sward is covered with beds of bluebells and great patches of golden bird's-foot trefoil; and look yonder is an old friend, the purple-blue geranium once more.

From the fifth milestone, the view that suddenly bursts upon our sight could hardly be surpa.s.sed for beauty in all broad Scotland. A mighty plain lies stretched out beneath us, bounded afar off by a chain of mountains, that are black in the foreground and light blue in the distance, while great cloud-banks throw their shadows over all.

But soon we are in a deep dark forest. And here I find the first blooming heath and heather, and with it we make the Wanderer look quite gay.

How sweetly sound is the sleep of the amateur gipsy! At Bankfoot, where we have been lying all night, is a cricket-ground. I was half awakened this morning (August 18th) at 5:30 by the linen manufactory hooter--and I hate a hooter. The sound made me think I was in Wales. I simply said to myself, "Oh! I am in South Wales somewhere. I wonder what I am doing in South Wales. I daresay it is all right." Then I sank to sleep again, and did not wake till nearly seven.