Black Rock | Page 7

circle about the fire, which now roared
and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from the roof. The
lumberman's hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a
shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from the
fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were well
a-going, one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed it
to Lachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from
Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the

face of a mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted
to his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting,
sarcastic speech.
Lachlan, after much protestation, interspersed with gibes from his
brother, took the violin, and, in response to the call from all sides,
struck up 'Lord Macdonald's Reel.' In a moment the floor was filled
with dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest
manner. Then Baptiste did the 'Red River Jig,' a most intricate and
difficult series of steps, the men keeping time to the music with hands
and feet.
When the jig was finished, Sandy called for 'Lochaber No More'; but
Campbell said, 'No, no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig will play.'
Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no ordinary
player. I did not recognise the music, but it was soft and thrilling, and
got in by the heart, till every one was thinking his tenderest and saddest
thoughts.
After he had played two or three exquisite bits, he gave Campbell his
violin, saying, 'Now, "Lochaber," Lachlan.'
Without a word Lachlan began, not 'Lochaber'--he was not ready for
that yet--but 'The Flowers o' the Forest,' and from that wandered
through 'Auld Robin Gray' and 'The Land o' the Leal,' and so got at last
to that most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, 'Lochaber No More.' At
the first strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets
behind the fire, turned over on his face, feigning sleep. Sandy
M'Naughton took his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up straight and stiff,
staring into vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp
breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I, in our student-days, in the
drawing-room at home, listening to his father wailing out 'Lochaber'
upon the pipes, and I well knew that the awful minor strains were now
eating their way into his soul.
Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long
since forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and

glens of his far-away native land, and making us, too, see strange
things out of the dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson, and was
startled at the eager, almost piteous, look in his eyes, and I wished
Campbell would stop. Mr. Craig caught my eye, and, stepping over to
Campbell, held out his hand for the violin. Lingeringly and lovingly the
Highlander drew out the last strain, and silently gave the minister his
instrument.
Without a moment's pause, and while the spell of 'Lochaber' was still
upon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the refrain of that
simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, 'The Sweet By and By.'
After playing the verse through once, he sang softly the refrain. After
the first verse, the men joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but by the
time the third verse was reached they were shouting with throats full
open, 'We shall meet on that beautiful shore.' When I looked at Nelson
the eager light had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was kind of
determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.
After the voices had ceased, Mr. Craig played again the refrain, more
and more softly and slowly; then laying the violin on Campbell's knees,
he drew from his pocket his little Bible, and said--
'Men, with Mr. Graeme's permission, I want to read you something this
Christmas Eve. You will all have heard it before, but you will like it
none the less for that.'
His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the eternal
story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as he read, a
slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he was
seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the timid joy, the
tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in upon us with
overpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the same low, clear
voice went on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to stand on
Christmas Eve listening in thrilling delight to his mother telling him