In our first blog post at the beginning of the week, we
promised two ‘local colour’ newspaper reports about the seals of North Uist.
Here is the second one, taken from the Inverness
Courier of 27 December 1849: an anecdote relating to Heisgeir or the Monach
Islands:
Tethering
a Seal. – Harris. – In these outlandish places, where parks and
enclosures are few and far between, it is the well-known custom to bind the
fore-legs of almost all domestic animals, in various ways, to prevent them
injuring crops, trespassing on neighbouring lands, or travelling to
inconvenient distances from the scene of their labours. But we never heard of
securing seals in this manner until the other day, when such an occurrence took
place in the hyperborean island of Heisker, one of the inhabited isles belonging
to, but several miles distant from, North Uist. Some of the inhabitants, in an
excursion to one of the islets on which they keep sheep, found a seal on the
sea-shore, but being too young to be of any use, they thought of an expedient
to secure the parent; they tied the young phoca to a rock attached to a stake
fixed a considerable distance above the shore; but the weather turning coarse,
they were obliged to put back immediately for home. On visiting the island the
next day, they found the tracks of the old one to and from the place where her
offspring was held captive. The young cub was brisk and lively, after having
evidently received food from his attached, and no doubt much distressed,
mother.
Was this a usual stratagem for the islanders of Heisgeir, or
a more desperate expedient in an attempt to secure some extra livelihood at a
time of severe famine and atrocious weather?
A report in the Elgin
Courier the following year, on 29 November 1850, suggests that, although the Hasgeir seal hunt
had been once more delayed by bad weather, this time the hunters
were better prepared for their expedition:
Capture
of Seals. – A few days since, the weather for some forty-eight hours
calmed down, and some dozen North Uist men proceeded in two boats on their
yearly visit to Hashgir, in search of seals. They were very successful, for
they killed no fewer than fifty-one of all sizes. One seal measured nine feet
in length, and six and a-half in girth, and yielded nearly thirty Scotch pints
of oil.
The Macdonald estate had been trying to sell North Uist
since 1848. Eventually the island found a buyer: Sir John Powlett Orde
(1803–78), who had
succeeded to the baronetcy of Morpeth on the death of his father, the eccentric
naval commander Admiral Sir John Orde (1751–1824). News of the purchase appeared in the
Inverness Courier of the 22 February 1855; Sir John took possession the
following Whitsunday. As a result of his marriage to Eliza Woollery Campbell
(d. 1829), Orde had acquired the Kilmory estate by Lochgilphead in Argyllshire, as
well as enjoying Eliza’s share of the profits from the sale of two sugar slave plantations
in Jamaica sold to the Leith merchant Sir John Gladstone (1764–1851), father of
William Ewart Gladstone, the Prime Minister. For his new country seat Orde had
built the rather unattractive Kilmory Castle, today the headquarters of Argyll
and Bute Council. By all accounts a remarkably disagreeable character, the
baronet’s memory
remains notorious in Lochgilphead to the present day.
Orde nevertheless won over his new tenants in North Uist,
donating a site for the first Free Church on the island, in Paible, and,
according to an Inverness Courier
report of 18 September 1856, acting ‘very handsomely to the large tenants here,
by giving them new leases of their farms without even advertising them. The
smaller occupants also are left as they were without any removals, I believe,
unless from one part of the property to another.’ This was a very different way
of running the North Uist estate from that of previous administration.
The following year, Orde’s son, Captain John William Powlett
Orde (1827–97), apparently took part in the Hasgeir seal hunt himself. A column
in the Inverness Courier of 29
October 1857 describes how:
Captain
Orde has been shooting here for the last fortnight. He is considered an
excellent sportsman, and a very condescending and amiable young man. The other
day, he ventured with a boat and crew into ‘Hasskir,’ a range of wild steep
rocks, lying about fifteen miles to the west of this island, in the direction
of St Kilda, and fetched thence no less than forty seals. It is rumoured that
Captain Orde, and not his father, is the real proprietor of this estate; we,
however, naturally look to Sir John himself as our head. Be that as it may, one
thing is certain, that people are fully as well satisfied under the new rule as
they ever were under the ancient line of the Macdonalds.
A captain in the 42
nd Highlanders, the Black
Watch, Orde would have been a good shot, probably armed with a new Enfield
rifle. The Hasgeir seal hunt had become a field sport.
Orde would take his mother’s surname by Royal Licence on 16
January 1880, becoming Sir John Campbell-Orde, Bart.
We thought that we’d end the blog with poetry concerning some of
the characters that we’ve met already this week. Here are some verses from
Cuideachadh Mhaighstir Ùisdean by the
Rev. John Norman MacDonald (1830–68), Church of Scotland minister of Harris,
third son of Roderick MacDonald of Cunambuintag in Benbecula. The brief
biography in the
Fasti [vol. vii, 190]
praises his ‘outstanding ability and culture … [H]e devoted much of his spare
time, both in his student days and afterwards, in collecting the floating
traditions and poetry of his native Uist.’ In the third volume of
Clan Donald [389] he is described as ‘[a] scholarly man of wide and varied culture, [who] left a large number of valuable MSS., dealing principally with the history, lore, and poetry of the Outer Islands.’ Both of these accounts will derive from his nephew, the Rev. Angus MacDonald of Killearnan (1858–1932). We have met the Rev. John Norman MacDonald as a
bard
before, writing in the name of his fellow minister the Rev. John Alexander
MacRae (1832–96) of North Uist, fourth son of the Rev. Finlay MacRae.
Cuideachadh Mhaighstir
Ùisdean, printed on pp.
143–7 of the
MacDonald
Collection of Gaelic Poetry (Inverness, 1911) edited by the Rev. Angus MacDonald
of Killearnan and the Rev. Archibald MacDonald of Kiltarlity, is the comical
answer to ‘verses perilously bordering on the satirical’ [
MacDonald Collection, xxvii] composed by the Rev. Hugh MacDonald of
Bernera (1822–88). The latter was himself a native of Benbecula, son of John MacDonald of
Torlum, and grandson of Domhnall Bàn MacDonald, brother of the Ùisdean Bàn of
Cille Pheadair, South Uist, whose fascinating testimony regarding Ossian is
printed in the Appendix of the
Report
of the Committee of the Highland Society
of 1805.
According to the Cuideachadh,
the marvellous poetry composed by the Rev. Hugh has not only put the entire countryside
under enchantment, but has wakened the ferocious heroes of old. The land is now
in danger. Among those his poetry has aroused is Odar’s head, rising out of its resting
place in Griminis:
Ach ’s ann a bha ’n
ùprait, ’s am fuathas,
Os cionn nan stuadhan
glas, éitidh,
An Griminis ’nuair a
luaisgeadh,
An cnoc uaine nuas
o’n dh’ éirich;
Claigionn Odair làn
de spuaicean,
Le mhalaidhean
gruamach, ’s le fhéusaig ;
Falt air dhroch
c[h]ìreadh mu chluasan,
Bu chulaidh uamhais
gu léir e.
There was uproar and
terror
Above the dreadful
grey billows
In Griminis when the
green hill
Was shaken, out of
which arose
The skull of Odar,
covered with blisters,
With his gloomy brows
and beard,
Hair unkempt about
his ears,
A truly terrible
sight indeed.
Bha dhà shùil mar
ghrian ag éiridh,
O chuan éitidh
mhaduinn gheamhraidh,
Bu gleodha [?recte
gheodha] 'nan uaigh a bheul,
Le ceathach bréun a
tighinn le srann as;
Bha ’n duslach a
measg a dhéudaich,
Ri! bu déistinneach
an samhl’ e,
Chlisg an eunlaith
anns na spéuran,
’S theich gach
creutair as na dheannruith.
His two eyes were
like the sun rising
From an awful sea on
a winter morning,
His mouth was [?a creek of caves]
With stinking smoke
coming out with a snort.
Lord! what a
loathsome sight!
The birds in the
skies took fright,
And every creature
made off in haste.
'Nuair a chrath e ’n
ùir as fhiaclan,
A chiabhagan liath,
’s as fhéusaig,
Leig e sgairt as,
chrith an iarmailt,
Chrith an cuan an
iar, ’s na sleibhtean;
‘Cà’ ’eil mo chorp?
grad thoir a nios e,
Mur deach a riasladh
as a cheile,
Ged dh’ ithinn, ’s
ged dh’ òlainn gu siorruidh,
Cha riaraich sud
trian de m’ éislein.’
When he shook the
earth out of his teeth,
His grey sideburns,
and his beard,
He roared, the skies
shook,
The ocean shook, and
the hillsides;
‘Where’s my body?
Give it back immediately
Unless it was mangled
asunder,
Although I should eat
and drink forever,
That won’t appease a
third of my sorrow.’
Ge tréun an saighdeir
tha Bhàlaidh,
’S anns na blàir ge
neothar thaingeil,
Theich e, ’s bu mhòr
an càs leinn,
Nach b’ fhearr e na
coilleach Frangach;
Spàrr e cheann fo
chòta mhàthar,
’S chluinnt’ a ràn
cho fad is Langais;
’S ged a bha batraidh
ceart lamh ris,
Cha d’ fhuiling e
tàir’ no ainneart.
Strong though the
soldier in Bhàlaigh was,
Resourceful in
battle,
He fled – and we were
in great distress
That he was no better
than a Turkey cock;
He thrust his head
under his mother’s coat,
And his wail was
heard as far away as Langais;
And although a full
artillery battery were beside him
He wouldn’t suffer
contempt or violence.
Bha Fear Scolpaig air
a léireadh,
Ghabh e ’n ratreuta
na dheannaibh,
Cha tugadh e sùil na
dhéigh,
Ged dh’ eighte dha
Breatunn fo bhannaibh;
Mar a ni ostrich ’na
h-eiginn,
A ceann a chur fo
ghéig a falach,
Shàth e cheann ’s an
fheamainn-chéirein,
’S dh’ fhàg e
fheamainn féin ri gealaich.
The tacksman of
Scolpaig was distressed
He made a hasty
retreat,
He wouldn’t look
behind him,
Even though all
Britain were to be promised to him;
As an ostrich in
distress
Will hide away its
head under a branch,
So he thrust his head
in the rock seaweed,
And he left his own
seaweed [?exposed – probably indecent!] to the moon
Dh’ amhairc an
claigionn mu ’n cuairt dha,
’S mhothaich e ’s an
uair da choluinn,
Chaidh e fo
thrioblaid, ’s fo thuairgneadh,
’S thuirt e, ‘Leam a
nuas!’ gu corrail;
’S e m’ aiteas bhi
air do ghuaillean,
Ach mo thruaighe!
chaidh mo ghonadh,
Tha do mheud air fàs
cho suarach,
’S nach lion do
chruachain mo bhonaid.
The skull looked
about
And noticed his body,
He grew troubled and
disturbed
And said fretfully,
‘Jump up!
I’d be glad to be on
your shoulders,
But dear me! I’m
sorely hurt,
You’ve grown so
insignificant
That your hips won’t
even fill my bonnet.’
Chlisg Fear Scolpaig,
leum e suas,
Le sùrdagan luath
thug e ’n tràigh air
Le sùil ri dol as o
thuasaid,
Fo chlaidhimh cruaidh
Sheumais Bhàlaidh;
Dh’ fhòghnadh sud, an
ceann ’s na cluasan,
A bh’ air a
ghuaillean mar tha leis,
Bu bheag a thoirt
dheth na fuamhairean,
A fhuair dhiubh còrr
is a b’ fheairrd iad.
The tacksman of
Scolpaig started and jumped up,
With speedy leaps he
made for the beach
Intending to escape
from the quarrel
Under the protection
of the hard sword of James of Bhàlaigh;
It would be enough,
to keep the head and the ears
That were on his
shoulders already,
It wouldn’t be good
for it to be taken off by the giants
Who had got more of
them than was good for them [?anyway].
The meaning of the last two lines isn’t entirely clear.
Seumas Bhàlaigh, the soldier with his sword, is Major James
MacRae (1834–73), whom we’ve met earlier reciting to Alexander Carmichael the
story of Odar, his leap, and his head. The tacksman of Scolpaig, whose massive frame is nevertheless still
too small for Odar’s head, is Carmichael’s good friend John MacDonald (1824–88),
factor of North Uist.
Image: seals at Heisgeir (Stuart Keasley).