An gaidheal - National Library of Scotland

—May, 1873. THE GAEL. 95A HIGHLAND FUNERAL.We are assembled on the green sward.Each face is sad. Solemnity is everywheretraced in the features and movements ofevery one present. The scene is one whichcannot be studied by itself. As we gazeupon it we are hurried along on the swiftwings of imagination, and halt not till wefind ourselves, as the sun reddens in thewest, among the hushed crowd thatassembled on the coast of the shore of theSea of Galilee, to hear Him "who sjjokeas man ne'er spoke." Each one seemed tomake sorrow his. For my own part,whenever I looked at my neighbour, I feltas if I could weep. I felt that chokingsensation which I remember feeling when,for the first time, I left my father andmother—my brother— my gentle sistermy home, with its old and dear associations.(But ah ! I have here touched achord which makes me even now feel as acliildl) Many unsymijathizing hearts maylaugh at me when I say I felt in this wise;while others, who try to study thephilosophy of facts, may call me a poor,simple being. Simple I am, or I shouldnot be writing this, and that shiiplicity(we call it simi^licity to meet the demandsof the philosophy of facts) filled the heartsof all those present—the best and bravestof men on earth. Old men and young, allsat with heads uncovered. Even thesprightliest were loath to enter into conversation.Every person ajipeared to bethinking (some, perhaps, for the first time)and each one thought it an unholy thingto interrupt the current of thoughtwhether religious or otherwise — thatflowed through the other's mind. Withregard to myself, although impressed bythe sacredness of the scene, I allowed myboyish fancy free play among thosemysterious problems met in the contemplationof death and the grave. But myreverie is suddenly ended. We arearranged in pairs, with a space betweeneach pair. And now the mortal remainswe are about to convey to their last restingplace are slowly carried out by friends,who experience a mournful i^leasure inthus paying the last rites to one who canno more feel grateful for any work ofaffection. The bier is reverently raisedon the shoulders of the first two pairs.Friends and relations walk close behindit. In front there paces a saint like man,with "measured step and slow." He is,in this case, an old soldier. At everyhundred or two hundred paces, accordingas the distance to the cemetry is far ornear, he cries out "Relief," which is afor those under the bier to halt fora few seconds, until those coming nextassume their places. Whenever they doso, those relieved stand still till the wholeline passes them, and then they join inthe rear. This process is repeated all theway. Were it otherwise tlie men wouldbe very much wearied; for sometimes theyconvey the dead in this manner to a distanceof twenty miles or more, and veryfrequently along the roughest roads.Should any person chance to meet thefuneral, he would be showing the greatestdishonour to the dead unless he uncoveredhis head. This idea of respect is somethingsimilar to another very common inthe Highlands—that of adding a stone tothe lonely cairn set up in memory of somepoor unfortunate who was not blessed bybeing buried in the tomi) of his fathers.The Russians and most northern peoplesobserve both customs.When the churchyard is reached thebody is lowered at the gate, and carried tothe grave by friends of the deceased. Onits being lowered into the grave every onepresent uncovers his head, and, as freelysubmitting to the will of the Creator ofall, says "Amen." The earth is then returnedinto its place by some of thosepresent, the chief mourners all the timestanding at the head of the grave.Females do not take part in Highlandfunerals. It is their chief duty to go tothe house of affliction, and to comfortsorrowing ones. In Orkney and Shetland,however, it is no strange thing to seewomen present at funerals. But in theseparts, I have observed, the female portionof the community knows what its rightsare. I cannot see why women should notpay the last honour that is in their powerto pay to the dead, unless, indeed, thepractice might be objected to on accountof the ebullitions of sorrow which thefairer and softer sex would naturally givevent to on such occasions.Here I may say a word or two withreference to a notion that has somehow orother crept to the south—that a great dealof intoxication takes place at Highlandfunerals. No scandal was ever of a morecreeping and lying nature than this. Becausethe foresight of the "son of themist" has told him to provide himself witha small supply of his favourite beveragewhen he is at a funeral where the nearestchurchyard is fifteen or twenty milesdistant, and where the only road is asheep-track across snow-covered moorsand ice bound hills, are we on that accountso destitute of charity as to call him a