Little Rivers [30]
only we must learn
that the real importance of what we see and hear in the world is to
be measured at last by its meaning, its significance, its intimacy
with the heart of our heart and the life of our life. And when we
find a little token of the past very safely and imperishably kept
among our recollections, we must believe that memory has made no
mistake. It is because that little thing has entered into our
experience most deeply, that it stays with us and we cannot lose
it.
You have half forgotten many a famous scene that you travelled far
to look upon. You cannot clearly recall the sublime peak of Mont
Blanc, the roaring curve of Niagara, the vast dome of St. Peter's.
The music of Patti's crystalline voice has left no distinct echo in
your remembrance, and the blossoming of the century-plant is dimmer
than the shadow of a dream. But there is a nameless valley among
the hills where you can still trace every curve of the stream, and
see the foam-bells floating on the pool below the bridge, and the
long moss wavering in the current. There is a rustic song of a
girl passing through the fields at sunset, that still repeats its
far-off cadence in your listening ears. There is a small flower
trembling on its stem in some hidden nook beneath the open sky,
that never withers through all the changing years; the wind passes
over it, but it is not gone--it abides forever in your soul, an
amaranthine blossom of beauty and truth.
White heather is not an easy flower to find. You may look for it
among the highlands for a day without success. And when it is
discovered, there is little outward charm to commend it. It lacks
the grace of the dainty bells that hang so abundantly from the
Erica Tetralix, and the pink glow of the innumerable blossoms of
the common heather. But then it is a symbol. It is the Scotch
Edelweiss. It means sincere affection, and unselfish love, and
tender wishes as pure as prayers. I shall always remember the
evening when I found the white heather on the moorland above Glen
Ericht. Or, rather, it was not I that found it (for I have little
luck in the discovery of good omens, and have never plucked a four-
leaved clover in my life), but my companion, the gentle Mistress of
the Glen, whose hair was as white as the tiny blossoms, and yet
whose eyes were far quicker than mine to see and name every flower
that bloomed in those lofty, widespread fields.
Ericht Water is formed by the marriage of two streams, one flowing
out of Strath Ardle and the other descending from Cairn Gowar
through the long, lonely Pass of Glenshee. The Ericht begins at
the bridge of Cally, and its placid, beautiful glen, unmarred by
railway or factory, reaches almost down to Blairgowrie. On the
southern bank, but far above the water, runs the high road to
Braemar and the Linn of Dee. On the other side of the river,
nestling among the trees, is the low white manor-house,
"An ancient home of peace."
It is a place where one who had been wearied and perchance sore
wounded in the battle of life might well desire to be carried, as
Arthur to the island valley of Avilion, for rest and healing.
I have no thought of renewing the conflicts and cares that filled
that summer with sorrow. There were fightings without and fears
within; there was the surrender of an enterprise that had been
cherished since boyhood, and the bitter sense of irremediable
weakness that follows such a reverse; there was a touch of that
wrath with those we love, which, as Coleridge says,
"Doth work like madness in the brain;"
flying across the sea from these troubles, I had found my old
comrade of merrier days sentenced to death, and caught but a brief
glimpse of his pale, brave face as he went away into exile. At
such a time the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are
darkened, and the clouds return after rain. But
that the real importance of what we see and hear in the world is to
be measured at last by its meaning, its significance, its intimacy
with the heart of our heart and the life of our life. And when we
find a little token of the past very safely and imperishably kept
among our recollections, we must believe that memory has made no
mistake. It is because that little thing has entered into our
experience most deeply, that it stays with us and we cannot lose
it.
You have half forgotten many a famous scene that you travelled far
to look upon. You cannot clearly recall the sublime peak of Mont
Blanc, the roaring curve of Niagara, the vast dome of St. Peter's.
The music of Patti's crystalline voice has left no distinct echo in
your remembrance, and the blossoming of the century-plant is dimmer
than the shadow of a dream. But there is a nameless valley among
the hills where you can still trace every curve of the stream, and
see the foam-bells floating on the pool below the bridge, and the
long moss wavering in the current. There is a rustic song of a
girl passing through the fields at sunset, that still repeats its
far-off cadence in your listening ears. There is a small flower
trembling on its stem in some hidden nook beneath the open sky,
that never withers through all the changing years; the wind passes
over it, but it is not gone--it abides forever in your soul, an
amaranthine blossom of beauty and truth.
White heather is not an easy flower to find. You may look for it
among the highlands for a day without success. And when it is
discovered, there is little outward charm to commend it. It lacks
the grace of the dainty bells that hang so abundantly from the
Erica Tetralix, and the pink glow of the innumerable blossoms of
the common heather. But then it is a symbol. It is the Scotch
Edelweiss. It means sincere affection, and unselfish love, and
tender wishes as pure as prayers. I shall always remember the
evening when I found the white heather on the moorland above Glen
Ericht. Or, rather, it was not I that found it (for I have little
luck in the discovery of good omens, and have never plucked a four-
leaved clover in my life), but my companion, the gentle Mistress of
the Glen, whose hair was as white as the tiny blossoms, and yet
whose eyes were far quicker than mine to see and name every flower
that bloomed in those lofty, widespread fields.
Ericht Water is formed by the marriage of two streams, one flowing
out of Strath Ardle and the other descending from Cairn Gowar
through the long, lonely Pass of Glenshee. The Ericht begins at
the bridge of Cally, and its placid, beautiful glen, unmarred by
railway or factory, reaches almost down to Blairgowrie. On the
southern bank, but far above the water, runs the high road to
Braemar and the Linn of Dee. On the other side of the river,
nestling among the trees, is the low white manor-house,
"An ancient home of peace."
It is a place where one who had been wearied and perchance sore
wounded in the battle of life might well desire to be carried, as
Arthur to the island valley of Avilion, for rest and healing.
I have no thought of renewing the conflicts and cares that filled
that summer with sorrow. There were fightings without and fears
within; there was the surrender of an enterprise that had been
cherished since boyhood, and the bitter sense of irremediable
weakness that follows such a reverse; there was a touch of that
wrath with those we love, which, as Coleridge says,
"Doth work like madness in the brain;"
flying across the sea from these troubles, I had found my old
comrade of merrier days sentenced to death, and caught but a brief
glimpse of his pale, brave face as he went away into exile. At
such a time the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are
darkened, and the clouds return after rain. But