by John Bunyan
I am an old connoisseur in the beauties of the uplands, but I held my breath at the sight. And when I glanced at my companion, he too had raised his head, and stood with wide nostrils and gleaming eye revelling in this glimpse of Arcady. Then he found his voice, and the weakness and craziness seemed for one moment to leave him.
‘It’s my ain land,’ he cried, ‘and I’ll never leave it. D’ye see yon lang broun hill wi’ the cairn?’ and he gripped my arm fiercely and directed my gaze. ‘Yon’s my bit. I howkit it richt on the verra tap, and ilka year I gang there to mak it neat and orderly. I’ve trystit wi’ fower men in different pairishes, that whenever they hear o’ my death, they’ll cairry me up yonder and bury me there. And then I’ll never leave it, but lie still and quiet to the warld’s end. I’ll aye hae the sound o’ water in my ear, for there’s five burns tak’ their rise on that hillside, and on a’ airts the glens gang doun to the Gled and the Aller.’
Then his spirit failed him, his voice sank, and he was almost the feeble gangrel once more. But not yet, for again his eye swept the ring of hills, and he muttered to himself names which I knew for streams, lingeringly, lovingly as of old affections. ‘Aller and Gled and Callowa,’ he crooned, ‘braw names, and Clachlands and Cauldshaw and the Lanely Water. And I maunna forget the Stark and the Lin and the bonny streams o’ the Creran. And what mair? I canna mind a’ the burns, the Howe and the Hollies and the Fawn and the links o’ the Manor. What says the Psalmist about them?
As streams of water in the South,
Our bondage, Lord, recall.
Ay, but yon’s the name for them. “Streams o’ water in the South.”’
As we went down the slopes to the darkening vale I heard him crooning to himself in a high, quavering voice the single distich; then in a little his weariness took him again, and he plodded on with no thought save for his sorrows.
IV
The conclusion of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd of the Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I stayed the night, belated on the darkening moors. He told me it after supper in a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times, and he poked viciously at the dying peat.
‘In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi’ sheep, and a weary job I had and sma’ credit. Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi’ the wind swirlin’ and bitin’ to the bane, and the broun Gled water choked wi’ Solloway sand. There was nae room in ony inn in the town, so I bude to try a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where sailor-folk and fishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae the hills thocht o’ gangin’. I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell’t my beasts dooms cheap, and I thocht o’ the lang miles hame in the wintry weather. So after a bite o’ meat I gangs oot to get the air and clear my heid, which was a’ rammled wi’ the auction-ring.
‘And whae did I find, sittin’ on a bench at the door, but the auld man Yeddie? He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was hingin’ ower his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist’s. His claes fell loose about him, and he sat wi’ his hand on his auld stick and his chin on his hand, hearin’ nocht and glowerin’ afore him. He never saw nor kenned me till I shook him by the shouthers, and cried him by his name.
‘“Whae are ye?” says he, in a thin voice that gaed to my hert.
‘“Ye ken me fine, ye auld fule,” says I. “I’m Jock Rorison o’ the Redswirehead, whaur ye’ve stoppit often.”
‘“Redswirehead,” he says, like a man in a dream. “Redswirehead! That’s at the tap o’ the Clachlands Burn as ye gang ower to the Dreichil.”
‘“And what are ye daein’ here? It’s no your countryside ava, and ye’re no fit noo for lang trampin’.”
‘“No,” says he, in the same weak voice and wi’ nae fushion in him, “but they winna hae me up yonder noo. I’m ower auld and useless. Yince a’body was gled to see me, and wad keep me as lang’s I wantit, and had aye a guid word at meeting and pairting. Noo it’s a’ changed, and my wark’s dune.”
‘I saw fine that the man was daft, but what answer could I gie to his havers? Folk in the Callowa glens are as kind as afore, but ill weather and auld age had put queer notions intil his heid. Forbye, he was seeck, seeck unto death, and I saw mair in his ee than I likit to think.
‘“Come in-by and get some meat, man,” I said. “Ye’re famishin’ wi’ cauld and hunger.”
‘“I canna eat,” he says, and his voice never changed. “It’s lang since I had a bite, for I’m no hungry. But I’m awfu’ thirsty. I cam here yestreen, and I can get nae water to drink like the water in the hills. I maun be settin’ out back the morn, if the Lord spares me.”
‘I mindit fine that the body wad tak nae drink like an honest man, but maun aye draibble wi’ burn water, and noo he had got the thing on the brain. I never spak a word, for the maitter was bye ony mortal’s aid.
‘For lang he sat quiet. Then he lifts his heid and looks awa ower the grey sea. A licht for a moment cam intil his een.
‘“Whatna big water’s yon?” he said, wi’ his puir mind aye rinnin’ on waters.
‘“That’s the Solloway,” says I.
‘“The Solloway,” says he; “it’s a big water, and it wad be an ill job to ford it.”
‘“Nae man ever fordit it,” I said.
‘“But I never yet cam to the water I couldna ford,” says he. “But what’s that queer smell i’ the air? Something snell and cauld and unfreendly.”
‘“That’s the salt, for we’re at the sea here, the mighty ocean.”
‘He keepit repeatin’ the word ower in his mouth. “The salt, the salt! I’ve heard tell o’ it afore, but I dinna like it. It’s terrible cauld.”
‘By this time an on-ding o’ rain was coming up frae the water, and I bade the man come indoors to the fire. He followed me, as biddable as a sheep, draggin’ his legs like yin far gone in seeckness. I set him by the fire, and put whisky at his elbow, but he wadna touch it.
I‘“I’ve nae need o’ it,” said he. “I’m fine and warm”; and he sits staring at the fire, aye comin’ ower again and again, “The Solloway, the Solloway. It’s a guid name and a muckle water.” But sune I gaed to my bed, being heavy wi’ sleep, for I had traivelled for twae days.
‘The next morn I was up at six and oot to see the weather. It was a’ changed. The muckle tides lay lang and still as our ain Loch o’ the Lee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o’ England shine bricht and clear. I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better to tak the lang miles back in the sun than in a blast o’ rain.
‘But as I lookit I saw folk comin’ up frae the beach cairryin’ something atween them. My hert gied a loup, and “Some puir, drooned sailor body,” says I to myself’, “whae has perished in yesterday’s storm.” But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run like daft, and lang ere I was up on them I saw it was Yeddie.
‘He lay drippin’ and white, wi’ his puir auld hair lyin’ back frae his broo and the duds clingin’ to his legs. But oot o’ the face there had gane a’ the seeckness and weariness. His een were stelled as if he had been lookin’ forrit to something, and his lips were set like a man on a lang errand. And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm in his hand that nae man could lowse it, so they e’en let it be.
‘Then they tell’t me the tale o’t, how at the earliest licht they had seen him wanderin’ alang the sands, juist as they were putting out their boats to sea. They wondered and watched him, till of a sudden he turned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till he was oot o’ sicht. They rowed a’ their pith to the place, but they were ower late. Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi’ his face to the other side; and then they got his body, for the tide was rinnin’ low in the mornin’.
‘We brocht him up to the house and laid him there till the folk i’ the town had heard o’ the business. Syne the procurator-fiscal came and certifeed the death, and the rest was left to me. I got a wooden coffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi’ his
staff in his hand and his auld duds about him. I mindit o’ my sworn word, for I was yin o’ the four that had promised, and I settled to dae his bidding. It was saxteen miles to the hills, and yin and twenty to the lanely tap whaur he had howkit his grave. But I never heedit it. I’m a strong man, weel used to the walkin’, and my hert was sair for the auld body. Now that he had gotten deliverance from his affliction, it was for me to leave him in the place he wantit. Forbye, he wasna muckle heavier than a bairn.
‘It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven o’clock I was at the edge o’ the muirlands. There was a braw mune, and a’ the glens and taps stood out as clear as midday. Bit by bit, for I was gey tired, I warstled ower the rigs and up the cleuchs to the Gled-head; syne up the stany Gled-cleuch to the lang grey hill which they ca’ the Hurlybackit. By ten I had come to the cairn, and black i’ the mune I saw the grave. So there I buried him, and though I’m no a releegious man, I couldna help sayin’ ower him the guid words o’ the Psalmist –
As streams of water in the South,
Our bondage, Lord, recall.’
So if you go from the Gled to the Aller, and keep far over the north side of the Muckle Muneraw, you will come in time to a stony ridge which ends in a cairn. There you will see the whole hill country of the south, a hundred lochs, a myriad streams, and a forest of hill-tops. There on the very crest lies the old man, in the heart of his own land, at the fountain-head of his many waters. If you listen you will hear a noise as of a swaying of trees or a ripple on the sea. It is the sound of the rising of burns, which, innumerable and unnumbered, flow thence to the silent glens for evermore.
The Watcher by the Threshold
A chill evening in the early October of the year 189–found me driving in a dogcart through the belts of antique woodland which form the lowland limits of the hilly parish of More. The Highland express, which brought me from the north, took me no farther than Perth. Thence it had been a slow journey in a disjointed local train, till I emerged on the platform at Morefoot, with a bleak prospect of pot stalks, coal heaps, certain sour corn lands, and far to the west a line of moor where the sun was setting. A neat groom and a respectable trap took the edge off my discomfort, and soon I had forgotten my sacrifice and found eyes for the darkening landscape. We were driving through a land of thick woods, cut at rare intervals by old long-frequented highways. The More, which at Morefoot is an open sewer, became a sullen woodland stream, where the brown leaves of the season drifted. At times we would pass an ancient lodge, and through a gap in the trees would come a glimpse of chipped crowstep gable. The names of such houses, as told me by my companion, were all famous. This one had been the home of a drunken Jacobite laird, and a king of north country Medmenham. Unholy revels had waked the old halls, and the devil had been toasted at many a hell-fire dinner. The next was the property of a great Scots law family, and there the old Lord of Session, who built the place, in his frouzy wig and carpet slippers, had laid down the canons of Taste for his day and society. The whole country had the air of faded and bygone gentility. The mossy roadside walls had stood for two hundred years; the few wayside houses were toll bars or defunct hostelries. The names, too, were great: Scots baronial with a smack of France – Chatelray and Riverslaw, Black Holm and Fountainblue. The place had a cunning charm, mystery dwelt in every cranny, and yet it did not please me. The earth smelt heavy and raw; the roads were red underfoot; all was old, sorrowful and uncanny. Compared with the fresh Highland glen I had left, where wind and sun and flying showers were never absent, all was chilly and dull and dead. Even when the sun sent a shiver of crimson over the crests of certain firs, I felt no delight in the prospect. I admitted shamefacedly to myself that I was in a very bad temper.
I had been staying at Glenaicill with the Clanroydens, and for a week had found the proper pleasure in life. You know the house with its old rooms and gardens, and the miles of heather which defend it from the world. The shooting had been extraordinary for a wild place late in the season; for there are few partridges, and the woodcock are notoriously late. I had done respectably in my stalking, more than respectably on the river, and creditably on the moors. Moreover, there were pleasant people in the house – and there were the Clanroydens. I had had a hard year’s work, sustained to the last moment of term, and a fortnight in Norway had been disastrous. It was therefore with real comfort that I had settled myself down for another ten days in Glenaicill, when all my plans were shattered by Sibyl’s letter. Sibyl is my cousin and my very good friend, and in old days when I was briefless I had fallen in love with her many times. But she very sensibly chose otherwise, and married a man Ladlaw – Robert John Ladlaw, who had been at school with me. He was a cheery, good-humoured fellow, a great sportsman, a justice of the peace, and deputy lieutenant for his county, and something of an antiquary in a mild way. He had a box in Leicestershire to which he went in the hunting season, but from February till October he lived in his moorland home. The place was called the House of More, and I had shot at it once or twice in recent years. I remembered its loneliness and its comfort, the charming diffident Sibyl, and Ladlaw’s genial welcome. And my recollections set me puzzling again over the letter which that morning had broken into my comfort. ‘You promised us a visit this autumn,’ Sibyl had written, ‘and I wish you would come as soon as you can.’ So far common politeness. But she had gone on to reveal the fact that Ladlaw was ill; she did not know how, exactly, but something, she thought, about his heart. Then she had signed herself my affectionate cousin, and then had come a short, violent postscript, in which, as it were, the fences of convention had been laid low. ‘For Heaven’s sake, come and see us,’ she scrawled below. ‘Bob is terribly ill, and I am crazy. Come at once.’ To cap it she finished with an afterthought: ‘Don’t bother about bringing doctors. It is not their business.’
She had assumed that I would come, and dutifully I set out. I could not regret my decision, but I took leave to upbraid my luck. The thought of Glenaicill, with the woodcock beginning to arrive and the Clanroydens imploring me to stay, saddened my journey in the morning, and the murky, coaly, midland country of the afternoon completed my depression. The drive through the woodlands of More failed to raise my spirits. I was anxious about Sibyl and Ladlaw, and this accursed country had always given me a certain eeriness on my first approaching it. You may call it silly, but I have no nerves and am little susceptible to vague sentiment. It was sheer physical dislike of the rich deep soil, the woody and antique smells, the melancholy roads and trees, and the flavour of old mystery. I am aggressively healthy and wholly Philistine. I love clear outlines and strong colours, and More with its half tints and hazy distances depressed me miserably. Even when the road crept uphill and the trees ended, I found nothing to hearten me in the moorland which succeeded. It was genuine moorland, close on eight hundred feet above the sea, and through it ran this old grass-grown coach road. Low hills rose to the left, and to the right, after some miles of peat, flared the chimneys of pits and oil works. Straight in front the moor ran out into the horizon, and there in the centre was the last dying spark of the sun. The place was as still as the grave save for the crunch of our wheels on the grassy road, but the flaring lights to the north seemed to endow it with life. I have rarely had so keenly the feeling of movement in the inanimate world. It was an unquiet place, and I shivered nervously. Little gleams of loch came from the hollows, the burns were brown with peat, and every now and then there rose in the moor jags of sickening red stone. I remembered that Ladlaw had talked about the place as the old Manann, the holy land of the ancient races. I had paid little attention at the time, but now it struck me that the old peoples had been wise in their choice. There was something uncanny in this soil and air. Framed in dank mysterious woods and a country of coal and ironstone, at no great distance from the capital city, it was a sullen relic of a lost barbarism. Over the low hills lay a green pastoral country with bright streams and valleys, but here, in this peaty desert, there were few sheep and lit
tle cultivation. The House of More was the only dwelling, and, save for the ragged village, the wilderness was given over to the wild things of the hills. The shooting was good, but the best shooting on earth would not persuade me to make my abode in such a place. Ladlaw was ill; well, I did not wonder. You can have uplands without air, moors that are not health-giving, and a country life which is more arduous than a townsman’s. I shivered again, for I seemed to have passed in a few hours from the open noon to a kind of dank twilight.
We passed the village and entered the lodge gates. Here there were trees again – little innocent new-planted firs, which flourished ill. Some large plane trees grew near the house, and there were thickets upon thickets of the ugly elderberry. Even in the half darkness I could see that the lawns were trim and the flower beds respectable for the season; doubtless Sibyl looked after the gardeners. The oblong whitewashed house, more like a barrack than ever, opened suddenly on my sight, and I experienced my first sense of comfort since I left Glenaicill. Here I should find warmth and company; and sure enough, the hall door was wide open, and in the great flood of light which poured from it Sibyl stood to welcome me.
She ran down the steps as I dismounted, and, with a word to the groom, caught my arm and drew me into the shadow. ‘Oh, Henry, it was so good of you to come. You mustn’t let Bob think that you know he is ill. We don’t talk about it. I’ll tell you afterwards. I want you to cheer him up. Now we must go in, for he is in the hall expecting you.’
While I stood blinking in the light, Ladlaw came forward with outstretched hand and his usual cheery greeting. I looked at him and saw nothing unusual in his appearance; a little drawn at the lips, perhaps, and heavy below the eyes, but still fresh-coloured and healthy. It was Sibyl who showed change. She was very pale, her pretty eyes were deplorably mournful, and in place of her delightful shyness there were the self-confidence and composure of pain. I was honestly shocked, and as I dressed my heart was full of hard thoughts about Ladlaw. What could his illness mean? He seemed well and cheerful, while Sibyl was pale; and yet it was Sibyl who had written the postscript. As I warmed myself by the fire, I resolved that this particular family difficulty was my proper business.
