Amid the High Hills

<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_215"></SPAN>[215]</span></p> <div class="figcenter illowp100" id="ich17" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> <ANTIMG class="w100" src="images/i_ch17.jpg" alt="Chapter XVII" /></div> <h2 class="nobreak" id="XVII">XVII<br/> THE SECRET OF THE HIGH HILLS</h2> <p><span class="smcap">“I shall</span> never forget that day, or the self-sacrifice and bravery of those men in that Brigade.” The speaker was a chaplain attached to one of the Highland Brigades which had been fighting in France. “We were told that a particular position had to be taken, and the work was allotted to certain of the Highland regiments. My work was to attend the dying after the attack was over and the position carried at the point of the bayonet. Amongst them was a piper who had shown extraordinary bravery in the assault, and who, though wounded three times, had persisted in carrying on and playing his pipes<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_216"></SPAN>[216]</span> until he fell mortally wounded just as the assault, after very heavy fighting, was proving successful. He knew he was dying, and gave me messages for his wife and family. He was evidently a man of strong faith, and had no fear of death. Just before his valiant spirit passed away, he whispered, ‘Oh, if I could only see the high hills again before I die.’ His words deeply impressed me, and I have often thought of them since.”</p> <p>This story of the dying piper, told to me in such simple and touching language, set me thinking and wondering. I could not help feeling that those last words of the gallant Highlander would strike a sympathetic chord in the hearts not only of those whose most cherished and sacred memories are bound up with the Highlands of Scotland, but of countless numbers of others who also love that country. In the days of peace I had often pondered over the irresistible fascination of this call from the North.</p> <p>The Highlands of Scotland! Is there any one who has ever seen them, or who knows even slightly something of their romantic and enchanting history, who can fail to understand the passionate devotion of any one with Highland blood in his veins to that wonderful land?</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_217"></SPAN>[217]</span></p> <p>“All the world over the sons of the heather and the mist, in however distant or alien lands they may be, feel always, as they steer their way through life, that there is a pole-star by which they set their compass; and that some day, perhaps, they or their children may steer the boat to a haven on some rocky shore, where the whaup calls shrilly on the moors above the loch, and the heather grows strong and tough on the hill-side, and the peat reek rises almost like the incense of an evening prayer against a grey, soft sky in the land of the north.”<SPAN name="FNanchor_35" href="#Footnote_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</SPAN></p> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="poetry"> <div class="stanza"> <div class="verse indent0">From the lone shieling on the misty island</div> <div class="verse indent2">Mountains divide us, and a waste of seas.</div> <div class="verse indent0">Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is highland,</div> <div class="verse indent2">And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.<SPAN name="FNanchor_36" href="#Footnote_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</SPAN></div> </div></div> </div> <p>How many a man at the end of July or the beginning of August, worn out with his work in Parliament, or the Law Courts, or elsewhere, turns his face and his thoughts to the North, and finds even in his anticipations and dreams of the days to come refreshment and solace! In most things in this life the anticipation is far greater<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_218"></SPAN>[218]</span> than the reality, but not so in this case. In the hearts of how many men and women do the words of Aytoun find a responsive echo:</p> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="poetry"> <div class="stanza"> <div class="verse indent0">Give me but one hour of Scotland,</div> </div></div> </div> <hr class="r10a" /> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="poetry"> <div class="stanza"> <div class="verse indent2">Southern gales are not for me;</div> <div class="verse indent0">Though the glens are white with winter,</div> <div class="verse indent2">Place me there and set me free.</div> </div></div> </div> <p>Why is it that so many persons, young and old, and of such different character, habits, and classes, are fascinated and held by the spell of this country? What is the motive which is common to them all, if there is one? No doubt with some it is the longing for rest and change of scene, or the opportunity of meeting old friends or relatives in the far North, with others the desire for sport or the gratification of artistic tastes, and with others the ardent yearning to hear again the old familiar sounds, familiar since their early childhood&mdash;the sound of the rushing burn, the breaking of the sea on the rock-bound shore, the call of the sea-birds&mdash;and to see once more the high hills and silvery lochs and scent again the fragrant heather. But underlying all these, and perhaps more often than not quite unconsciously, there is one dominant governing<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_219"></SPAN>[219]</span> motive which is surely spiritual rather than material&mdash;the desire for the environment which will uplift and ennoble, and with it bring a sense of being nearer to the pure&mdash;nearer to the things that are unseen and eternal&mdash;removed from all that is coarse and material.</p> <p><SPAN name="MORNING" id="MORNING"></SPAN></p> <div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i218fp" style="max-width: 62.5em;"> <ANTIMG class="w100 p2" src="images/i_218_fp.jpg" alt="" /> <div class="caption"><p class="pfs80">“THE MORNING COMETH.”</p> <p class="pfs80">By <span class="smcap">Finlay Mackinnon</span>.</p> </div> </div> <p>I well remember on one occasion discussing the question of the future world with a Highland keeper, and the emphatic way in which he said, “One thing is certain, and that is, that no one could be an atheist if he spent his life on the mountains.” I also remember that, curiously enough, the same observation was made by one Cambridge undergraduate to another, the speaker having been in the habit of spending days and nights camping out on the mountains in his father’s Highland property.</p> <p>It is not inappropriate that in the Gaelic language the words used to signify “death” and “died” are not the same when used in reference to a human being as the words which are used in reference to an animal, the former words, <i lang="gd" xml:lang="gd">caochladh</i> (substantive), <i lang="gd" xml:lang="gd">chaochail</i> (verb), signifying a change or passing from one state of life into another, the latter <i lang="gd" xml:lang="gd">bas</i> (substantive), <i lang="gd" xml:lang="gd">bhasaich</i> (verb), extinction or annihilation.</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_220"></SPAN>[220]</span></p> <p>On the sea coast, at the mouth of one of the sea lochs on the west coast of Ross-shire, I have often waited for the dawn, looking up the loch towards the high hills in the distance, and, whilst I waited, there would come into my mind those impressive words of the prophet Isaiah, “Watchman, what of the night?” The watchman said, “The morning cometh.” No one who has had this experience and seen the sun rise in its splendour over the high hills, flooding the surface of the sea with brilliant crimson light, will ever forget the scene, or the uplifting of spirit and sense of abiding peace which it imparted.</p> <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />