Blair Collection > Celtic monthly > Volume 7, 1899

THE CELTIC MONTHLY.
20S
Oban lies Glen Eila. Lonely mountains rearing
their lofty heads shut out the little Glen from
the surrounding world. As far as eye can see
stretch those lone hills with their heather clad
brows. Sometimes as you stand and listen in
vain for some sound of human life, the .silence
suddenly oppresses you until you long to scream
and break the awful stillness ; and as you gaze
on the interminable hills you want to rush
•wildly on and on till you get to the world
beyond them.
It would seem as if earth's sin and sorrow
could not pierce the mighty barrier to curse
with their load the lonely lives spent there. Yet
there, where God's very presence seems embodied
in the sublimity and grandeur of nature, there
they sin and sutler, there they sorrow and die.
When Leslie returned to Glen Eila he entered
the Glen by the mountain pass he knew so
well. Unbidden the past came back again, and
the flood gates of memory were opened. The
remembrance of his early passion tinged every
scene. Here and there a tree, a mountain burn,
marked some once hallowed spot. An old man
by the roadside greeted hira with the characteristic
phrase, "it's soft the day," and as he heard the
quaint speech, he felt a boy in Glen Eila again.
After exchanging a word or two with the old
man, just to refresh his ear with the old accent
he was about to go on his way, when by
his side, he noticed a strange looking man of
middle age. He had a long shaggy beard and
unkempt hair. His clothes of rough tweed
hung loosely about him. His ligui'e, gaunt and
lean, was strangely bent, and his dark sunken
eyes he scarcely lifted from the ground. As
Leslie paused, he slouched up to him with fists
slightly clenched, and muttered something un-
intelligible in Gaelic. The old man pulled him
away, and at his touch he seeuied docile as a
child. Then turning to Leslie he apologized,
saying, " he will do you no harm. Sir, he will
be for thinking that it wass the bad Sassunach
that took his lass from him whatever. There
wass not any finer lad in all Argyllshire, and it
iss a proud man I am thinking I would be this
day, but he wass just daft about yon bit lassie."
Seeing a look of interest on Leslie's face he
continued " she wass a bonnie 1/airn, and it iss
a good husband he would hef been to her what-
efier, but one of yon fine English gentlemen
comes to Glen Eila, and iss courting the lass
with his fine speeches, and iss saying he will be
coming back for to marry her. Then he went
away, and it will not be ferry easy for a young
lass to forget, but what is the use of fretting,
and fretting. But it is not efiery one will be
able to put such things out of the mind. It
wass a bad day the day that Mhari Og saw the
Sassunach in Glen Eila, for it iss no news that
came from England, and the poor bairn iss
yonder in the kirk-yard, and it iss Jamie who
is daft-like since." It was enough, Leslie could
stand it no longer; hastily pulling out a sovereign
he would have thrust it into the old man's hand,
but the latter drew back saying " no, no, I'm no
wanting the money, I'll die on the road, but
they'll no heff Jamie in the poorhouse ; when
] am gone the Almighty will do the rest."
Hurrying away Leslie did not stop until he
reached the little churchyard on the hillside.
No trim walks and gaily blooming flowers gave
a living look to this wild spot. It was indeed
a " city of the dead." Desolation and decay
marked all around. Rank grass, among which
were almost hidden the stone slabs, green with
moss and dark with age, covered the dreary
waste. No church cast its holy shadow over
the sleeping dead and sanctified their resting
place. Yet Leslie felt on holy ground as
stumbling over hidden graves and broken tomb-
stones in search of what he dreaded to see, he
paused at last before a simple stone that stood
out in snowy whiteness among the time-worn
tombs around. Mechanically he read the short
inscription —
Mhari,
Only Child of Duncan and Jane Macintyre,
Born June 1st, 1879 : Died January 3rd, 1898.
That was all, but Leslie read between the
line.s, read there the story of a broken heart,
a shadowed home, the loss of a strong man's
reason, through lightly held and long forgotten
vows.
IMRICH NAN RADAN.
'Luchd UHii earball fada direach,
Nam husan 's nan geur ghoileachau,
Tlia mise 'toirt b.'iirlinn laghail dhuibli.
Sabluil an duiuc Ijlidchd bhronaich a sheachnadh
A chain a shluiute, 's iiach do ghleidh i,
Mm- an d'fhuair e sgualiag bho na cairdeau air an
del re'.
TLeirigibh thairis do Dhuu-gliormaig am Muile
Far a bheil ( Jalum MacPhail 's na gleannaibh ;
An truilleadh ndiosach bhruideil bhodaich —
Siod ainm 'us a shloinneadh —
Thoiribh bhuaithe gach ni th' aige,
'S na fagaibh mias no meadar,
Liath no ladar, nach cream 'snach cagainn ;
'Bhonaid 'tlia uiu clieann na beisde cuiribh an
straic oiixe,
Agus 'a uair gliabbas ckch mu tlikmh 's mu 'u
cadal,
Thoiribh an aou SKuirt-saairt feadh au fliodair.
The Gaelic Mod will be held in Edinburgh on
.'ith October. A complete programme of the com-
petitions and prizes will be found in our advertising
pages. The proceedings promise to be of the most
interesting and successful character, and we hope
our readers will make a point of attending.