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If the Northern Kingdom, in
its entirety, be reckoned - and with justice - as the most energetic
portion of Great Britain, we shall not go far astray in calling the
Highlands Scotland's Region of Romance. This, indeed, is a truism,
accepted as such on both sides of the Grampians. It is borne out, too, by
many a Lowland adage - such as that which tells us that "all the people
North of the Border fall naturally into three grand categories: "the Good,
the Bad, and - the Highlanders!"
Here we may perceive
Lowland criticism frankly baffled - an unusual occurrence - and disposed
to palm off upon us a jest instead of a judgment. Here the "Brither Scot"
playfully evades the responsibility of saying anything about the People of
the Mist. And he is wise to be careful, and refrain from rash
pronouncements. For there is a radical difference between the two ethnic
divisions of the nation; and Celt and Saxon have not always done each
other justice. Sometimes they have failed to come into intellectual touch
with one another at all or sympathize as fellow countrymen should.
The Geography of the matter
is simple enough, Take a map and draw a line from near Aberdeen to near
Glasgow. The mountainous country to the North and West is, roughly
speaking, the Highlands; the less mountainous districts to the South and
East form the Lowlands.
As for the Highlands, they
well deserve their name The whole region they occupy rises steeply in
broken, rolling straths and rugged peaks. Sometimes these are bare and
flinty, sometimes richly clothed; but what one sees on all sides answers
to Scott's happy description: "Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, - Land
of the mountain and the flood."
This country of bold
sierras and cliffs is diversified with swift rivers and great lakes. It is
Norway on a smaller scale. Minutely intersected by torrents and lochs
everywhere, it is torn in the West into a thousand Islands, the Hebrides.
The whole tract is clearly
marked off from the Lowlands. The latter are rich, arable, and densely
inhabited. In places, too (such as the Borders and Galloway) they too are
quite hilly.
The Highlands are largely
Celtic - with a considerable admixture of Norse, Danish, and Scandinavian
blood. The Lowlands are predominantly Saxon, - with a large admixture of
Norse and Celtic blood. The Celtic and the Scandinavian elements
constitute the common factor. There is a Celtic fringe everywhere; for the
Highlands and the Lowlands have reacted on each other, and intermarried
for eight hundred years.
The Highlander is wont to
call the Lowlander a Sassenach (Saxon), and to regard the Lowlands as a
foreign country. The Lowlander retaliates by poking fun at the manners and
customs, at the dress and language of the People of the Hills.
This he is able to do, for
they are very unlike his own. The Gael speaks Gaelic - which closely
resembles Erse, the language of Ireland. The remote Highlander learns
English at school, as an Edinburgh school-boy learns French. When
educated, he speaks the language excellently; and Highland English is
proverbially musical and correct. Inverness for example, is renowned for
its accent.
But when not trained, and
merely left to pick up his English, the Highlandman talks a mixture of
incorrect modern idiom and the exalted phraseology of the 18th Century.
The result is delightfully grotesque, grandiose and obscure. He transposes
the tenses, and for `yesterday' says 'to-morrow'. He confuses the genders,
and calls everything "She", except his wife and child - whom he calls "Hims".
He makes nouns qualify adjectives, and adverbs go with pronouns; and in
general he puts the cart before the horse. One of his common phrases is
"to be surely". His favourite word is "whatever".
Donald Bain was asked as to
the quantity and quality of his potatoes. "They are chust ferry goot," he
replied, "but ferry seldom whatever."
Gaelic happens to be one of
those languages that rigorously assimilate neighbouring consonants. Your
unsophisticated clansman carries this practice into his English; so that
he mostly gets his d's and his t's and his f's and Vs, not to speak of his
j's and his g's, all wrong somehow.
But the most startling
point in the Highland dialect is that a man does not say "I," but refers
to himself as "she" or "her".
A Highland workman once in
a Glasgow factory let fall a copper roller, which was too heavy for him.
This made him the butt of innumerable witticisms. The swift Highland anger
flashed out in return: "How can a man can, when she canna can?"
A clerical tourist seeing a
miserable crofter emerging from a tumble-down hut, inquired: "Where do you
live?" "Where does she lif?" responded the Highlander with dignity. "As
your Refference will doubtless haf obserfit, her residence is situated in
ta immediate vicinity."
It is like Dr. Johnson
talking in his sleep.
When educated, the crofter
- who has a natural talent for language - is generally able to express
himself with correct and dignified simplicity. People sometines speak of
the "Sentiment of the Highlands" and the "Humour of the Lowlands" by way
of pointing the contrast between them. Of course, this must not be pressed
too far. For though pure Gaels do not care much for a joke, there are few
pure Gaels; and Saxon sentiment is as strong as Celtic - for all it has a
different range.
The sentiment of the
Mountaineer is personal and idealistic; that of the Lowlander abstract and
realistic.
While the Highlander is
distinguished for his chivalry; the Lowlander will be noted for his
energy. Both are affectionate, - the Highlander sometimes with a certain
jealous exclusiveness; the Lowlander mostly with kindly tolerance or dry
sarcasm, at all events, with patience.
If we want to understand
something of idealism of the Highlands we must look into the wonderful
story of their attachment to the Stuart Kings. In IM and again in 1745
they espoused the cause of the exiled Scions of that Royal House. It was
all pure sentiment. But romance, daring adventure, personal devotion,
knight-errantry carried half the country into enterprises as foolish as
they were audacious, but chivalrous and unselfish in the last degree. The
Rebellion of Forty-Five - in aid of the Young Pretender - still kindles
the imagination. The Young Chevalier himself, only twenty four years of
age, tall, handsome, and martial, with his flowing yellow hair and tartan
dress, and with the fascination of his race in his manner, his courage,
clemency, misfortune, gave to the ill-fated struggle that personal element
that fired - perhaps still fires - so many hearts. The whole story reads
like an incredible romance - a piece of dream-history that well may shame
wiser but more calculating times.
"The landing of the young
Prince Charles at Moidart," says Williams, "with only seven followers, the
blaze of fiery loyalty that swept through the Highlands at his call, the
extraordinary victories won by the sheer impetus and hand-to-hand
onslaughts of the Highland clans, the picturesque entry into Edinburgh and
the gallant court of Holyrood, the swift march into England, which seemed
at one time to carry the Chevalier into St. James's Palace by its rush,
the retreat and disorganization, and finally the woeful slaughter of
Culloden, followed by the attainders and executions and the romantic
adventures of the Prince in hiding in the mountains and islands - all
contrived to create themes for song and poetry which have never been
surpassed in modern history."
The effervescence of
popular poetry that followed was characteristic. Its quantity was as
remarkable as its quality; and it lasted long.
The distinctive note of
personal loyalty is well presented in Lady Nairne's verse. Lady Nairne's
father and mother had been married in exile; for more than one generation
her family on both sides had been notable for their self-sacrificing
endeavours in aid of the Stuarts. Hers is the best song written to the
beautiful old air of Charlie is my Darling.
't Was on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
When Charlie cam' to our gude town,
The Young Chevalier.
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
The Young Chevalier.
As he cam' marching up the
street,
The pipes played loud an' clear,
An' a' the folks cam' running out
To meet the Chevalier.
Wi' Hieland bonnets on
their heads,
An' claymores bright an' clear,
They cam' to fight for Scotland's right
An' the Young Chevalier.
They've left their bonnie
Highland hills,
Their wives and bairnies dear,
To draw the sword for Scotland's lord,
The Young Chevalier.
Oh, there were mony beating
hearts
An' mony a hope an' fear,
An' mony were the prayers sent up
For the Young Chevalier.
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Oh, Charlie is my darling,
The Young Chevalier. |
