Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2139 page)

“Yours ever,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

It was under far different circumstances from those attendant on his visit to Edinburgh in 1822, that Mr. Collins again found himself in the Scottish capital, exactly twenty years after that date. The Royal visitor, whose presence had then spread unwonted gaiety, by night and day, through the whole city; Wilkie, with whom he had partaken in the brilliant festivities of that former tour; Scott, who had sung to them at his table, and had danced with them to the chorus of his song — the kingly patron of Literature and Art, the great Painter and the great Author — were now all numbered with the dead. There was, at first, something strangely depressing to him, about the aspect of those streets of the “New Town,” that he remembered so gay and crowded, and that he now saw so quiet and empty. But the day of arrival once passed away, there was no lack of occupation and amusement enough in Edinburgh, to turn his attention from the memories of the past to the employments of the present. The Old Town, with its lofty houses, as thoroughly picturesque as ever; Melrose Abbey, that he had last seen with Chantrey; Lasswade, whose lovely scenery his mother had so often described to him as a boy; all presented themselves to be re-explored with new interest and delight. Then, there was the society of many old friends in Edinburgh to recall agreeably the stories, the jests, and the amusements of past times: and lastly, there was positive business occupation for him, in the necessity of settling, with Mr. Cadell, all the preliminary arrangements for illustrating “The Pirate,” during his tour in Shetland.

A week passed quickly at Edinburgh, in employments and pleasures such as those above reviewed. At the expiration of that time, the painter and his companion started by steamer for Wick; and, on arriving there, proceeded by land to Captain Otter’s at Thurso — their last place of sojourn, ere they set forth for Shetland.

The coast scenery of Thurso and its immediate neighbourhood, though less wild and extensive, was perhaps more varied than the shores of Shetland itself. The view across to the Orkney Islands (from which, one of the illustrations to “The Pirate” was afterwards produced) — the grand dark rocks beyond John O’Groat’s house — the harbour and some of the houses of Thurso — presented excellent materials for the sketch-book. The colour, too, of the sea, as deeply and brilliantly blue, on sunny days, as the Mediterranean itself — and the extraordinary northern clearness of the atmosphere, lighted to a late hour of the night by a small dull glow of sunlight lingering in the western hemisphere, especially delighted and surprised the painter. Indeed, so amazingly radiant were the nights at Thurso, that Mr. Collins and his companion wrote letters to London, with the greatest ease, by the bright, pure, northern twilight, which streamed through their bed-room windows at
midnight;
and which rendered a candle or a lamp an encumbrance rather than an aid.

The great benefit that the painter derived, in his sketching excursions, from the attention of Captain Otter, whose knowledge of the north coast of Scotland was widely extended, may be easily imagined. After six days spent most agreeably at Thurso, it was time for Mr. Collins to resign further study of scenery, which, after his past experience of the softer beauties of Italian nature, presented itself to his eye under a delightful novelty and freshness of aspect, and to proceed at once upon his northward journey. This was accomplished by returning to Wick, and starting thence, by steamer, for Lerwick, the chief town of Shetland.

On landing at Lerwick, at six o’clock in the morning, my father saw enough, during his first five minutes on shore, to convince him that he had not taken his journey in vain. The quaint gray houses of the town; the absence of a single carriage or cart-road, through any part of it; the curious mixture of Dutchmen, Shetlanders, and soldiers from the garrison, passing through the narrow, paved lanes of the place, presented that combination of the new and the picturesque, which is ever welcome to a painter’s eye. The mode of life at the inn, too, was admirably removed from the usual conventionalities of the hotel systems of more southern regions. The whole company occupied one sitting-room — the only apartment of the kind, in the house — and slept in chambers, all opening one into the other, in the most social manner possible. Every day at the inn recalled the travelling adventures of past times, so perfectly described by Fielding — with the exception, fortunately, of the pitched battles which adorn the pages of the master of British fiction; and which were all fought, under the roof of “mine host” of Shetland, with the tongue and not with the fist. The characters of the company, who met for eating, and drinking, and talking purposes, in the sitting-room, would have furnished famous material to any novelist; and especially interested Mr. Collins, who was as enthusiastic a student of the mental as of the physical characteristics of humanity at large. Three gay Scotch gentlemen, wonderfully successful in extracting amusement from all that passed around them; a pedestrian traveller who had walked half over Europe, and whose manners and conversation were by no means of the sanest order; two ministers of the kirk, both intelligent gentlemen-like men; and two French officers, whose vessel was anchored for a short time in the harbour, who spoke no English, and who smoked all day; were among the more regular attendants in the “general assembly” room. The individual who enacted the part of cook, chambermaid, waiter, and “boots,” to everybody, was a slatternly, good-natured wench, who took extraordinary care of her master’s guests, plying them with little dishes of sweetmeats of her own composing, as if they had been a large nursery-f of children, and answering calls in all directions, with a promptitude which made her the very impersonation of the Irish image — ”ubiquitous as a bird, flying in two places at once.” The conversation at the social table, thus provided with guests and attendance, was one stream of gaiety. The great centre of the hilarity, was the eccentric pedestrian; who, one day, insisted on settling off-hand the ultimate chances of salvation of all his fellow-travellers, by “physiognomic analysis;” and who produced roars of laughter, on a Sunday afternoon, by seriously rebuking the minister who had preached in the morning, for not “throwing a little more
damnation
into his sermon, to open the eyes of the miserable sinners around him.”

Such were some of the elements of conviviality in the Shetland “ society,” in which the painter and his companion now mingled. Shetland scenery was, however, the object of my father’s journey; and to this he devoted himself, therefore, exclusively, leaving the enjoyment of the “humours of the inn,” for those evening hours, when his sketching labours had terminated for the day.

His first excursion was to the fishing village of Scalloway; of which, with its picturesque castle, he made a beautiful drawing, included in the illustrations to “The Pirate.” Here he was entertained by a visit to the shoemaker of the place, who combined in himself the somewhat various characteristics of a turn for political discussion, and the possession of the largest nose and hand in Shetland. These latter ornaments, from which he derived immense celebrity in the island, he displayed with as much triumph as if they had been the rarest beauties that had ever decorated the form of man.

An expedition, shortly afterwards, to Sumburgh Head, (the scene of Cleveland’s shipwreck, in Scott’s romance,) exhibited the grandest beauties on the coast of Shetland to the painter’s eye. The way thither, over vast treeless moors, intersected here and there by an arm of the sea, penetrated by nothing broader than a foot-path, bounded by bleak hills, and overshadowed by wild stormy clouds, presented to him a monotonous grandeur, in its very barrenness. The immense precipice of Sumburgh Head, hanging over as if it would fall into the sea, with the waves writhing about its jagged base, and hundreds on hundreds of sea-birds whirling above its mighty summit, was, he declared, one of the sublimest natural objects he had ever beheld. He made a careful sketch of it from the beach; from which he produced a striking and original illustration of the scene in “The Pirate,” where Cleveland is saved from the wreck of his vessel, by Mordaunt Mertoun.

This excursion, thus happily productive of a third, in the series of drawings executed by the painter for Mr. Cadell’s publication, was as fertile in occurrences illustrative of the virtues of Shetland hospitality and the capacities of Shetland ponies, as in materials for the pencil, and in subjects for admiration. The journey to Sumburgh Head, and back to Lerwick, occupied, with deviations from the direct route, two days, included upwards of seventy miles of riding, and was performed on two shaggy little Shetland ponies, which would have looked insignificant by the side of a small English donkey, and on which the painter and his companion were at first positively ashamed to mount. The first day’s journey — thirty miles — these wonderful little animals performed with ease, over a country which would have knocked up the strongest “road hack” that ever was bred. At the latter part of the day, a dense dark mist coming on, in the middle of a solitary moor, their bridles were thrown over their necks, by order of the guide, who had lost his way, and who coolly observed that the ponies would find it, and moreover would avoid the dangerous peat bogs, which intersected the moor in every direction. Thus left to their own guidance, the sturdy little Shetlanders trotted along, through drizzling rain and impenetrable mist, with their noses to the ground, like hounds on the scent, crossing each narrow tract of marsh, by jumping from one morsel of firm earth to another; never making a false step or showing a moment’s hesitation, or fatigue, for upwards of an hour, and stopped demurely, just as the vapour began to “lift,” opposite a gate and inclosure. Through these the guide led the way, and brought his travellers to a halt, opposite the parlour windows of a private house. Time was barely allowed for the Englishman’s feeling of dismay, at “committing a trespass” on a stranger’s property, before the proprietor of the dwelling came out, and invited Mr. Collins and his companion to dismount and look over his house and grounds, as cordially as if they had come by invitation. After showing them over his property with the greatest attention, this gentleman, observing that a stormy evening was approaching, gaily forbade his visitors to think of proceeding that night, and insisted upon their returning to his house, supping with his family, and sleeping in the spare bed-room that was ready for them. It was not until his invitation was accepted, that he asked the travellers their names. During the conversation that ensued, it appeared he knew Mr. Collins by reputation; having visited London, and taken some interest, while there, in matters of Art. This circumstance caused the evening to pass with more than usual cordiality; and when, on the next morning, Mr. Collins and his companion prepared to depart, they found their kind entertainer ready to accompany them on the first stage of their journey, to “wish them God speed,” like a host of bygone days.

Such is Shetland hospitality, on which, the guide informed his travellers, no one, rich or poor, ever counted in vain; and which now remains, in this little corner of the world, the same kindly institution that once existed among the tents of the patriarchs of old.

The day after the expedition to Sumburgh Head, (which ended on the part of the Shetland ponies in one of them running away, after a forty miles’ journey, when he found himself near his stable!) a large fleet of Dutch herring-boats anchored in Lerwick Harbour, and considerably enlivened its generally vacant appearance. The sight of these vessels recalled to my father his old favourite studies among the fishermen of the English shores, and animated him with the desire of examining them, to discover any elements of the picturesque among their crews, and any varieties between the rig of a Dutch and an English fishing-boat. Accordingly he and his companion mounted the side of the outermost of the clumsy little vessels, (which were all regularly ranged side by side, like volumes of Hume and Smollett on a school-room bookshelf,) but without finding any one on board. A second, third, and fourth proved equally solitary; but in the fifth and largest of the small squadron, they found signs of life. Two portly Dutchmen, utterly drunk and perfectly good-humoured, received them on deck, and led them, — allowing the painter little time to make any pictorial observations of their vessel or themselves, — down a ladder into a dark wooden pit, smelling strongly of stale herrings, called the cabin; in which sat the skipper, a man of vast breeches and cloudy physiognomy. After a few words in Dutch between him and his crew, — neither of the three speaking a word of English, — the captain pulled from a shelf a bottle of “schnapps,” three glasses, and a map of Europe. Having poured out the spirit, he spread forth the map on a locker, slowly placed his thumb on that part of it occupied by England, nodded his head solemnly at his guests, and drank off his dram in utter silence. He then pushed the map to the painter and his companion, who, finding it necessary to act their parts in this pantomime of international amity, put their thumbs on Holland, nodded their heads, and emptied their glasses in humble imitation of their host. Ludicrous as this part of the interview was, the scene became doubly comical when the painter, first making a series of elabourate signs, and then, in despair, speaking English with as strong a Dutch accent as he could assume impromptu, endeavoured to make the captain understand that he wanted to sketch from his vessel and his crew. All was in vain; this worthy man had but one idea in his head, and that was Bacchanalian. He nodded again, and prepared to fill the glasses once more: a course of proceeding which immediately drove Mr. Collins on deck. Here he had no better success with the crew. A gift of money produced a present of a bagfull of herrings; and more of the Anglo-Dutch, a hail for a shore boat. Finding the sketch-book an inscrutable mystery to the Hollanders, and fearing a further invasion of “schnapps” and herrings, the painter (who was by this time inarticulate with laughter) joined his companion in the boat that had now come alongside, and left the Dutchmen to continue their potations in peace.