GLENGARRY AND HIS FAVOURITE.
Many ages ago, when a powerful but capricious chief of Glengarry was erecting the venerable and stern mansion, whose ruins still arrest the stranger’s eye, he very injudiciously chose his companion and favourite from the humblest class of his retainers; and this one, like the generality of favourites once corrupted by a superior’s improper familiarity, soon forgot prudence and propriety. One day, when the castle’s infant walls had just upreared their massy front over their foundation, and while their warlike founder, in company with another chief, was superintending and admiring the progress of the building, up came the favourite with the greatest air of confidence, and without even saluting, as was then customary, his lord and chief, the dread possessor of unlimited feudal power, accosted him thus, in the presence of a recently conciliated rival—‘Alas! poor chief, know ye what the M’Bhethains say? They call you miser, and inquire, how comes it that you could not spare a little silver and gold to be placed in thy castle’s foundation, as is customary with other chiefs? Your present companion, they say,’ alluding to the chief already noticed, ‘has as much silver in the foundation of his castle as would buy yours.’ At this the stranger sneered with fiendish pleasure, seeing him whose friendship fear, not love, prompted him to court, but whom he fervently hated at heart, so much insulted by his own vassal. The chief himself was too severely stung—his rage was too gigantic—to stoop to instantaneous revenge: besides, it was derogatory for a chief to inflict personal chastisement on a vassal, and impracticable to do so in presence of another chief; but his brow was clouded, and his face was darkened as he spoke, until, recollecting himself, he smothered up his rage, and, endeavouring to assume an appearance of cheerfulness, he exclaimed—‘You are right Raonuil, I have quite omitted to do what you remind me of, I therefore thank you for the hint, and, believe me, I allow you more merit, from a conviction that I am not directly or indirectly beholden to those you mention for the suggestion, as it is not their own custom to do the like; however, it should be done, and, with your assistance, we will correct the omission to-night.’ The vassal retired chuckling, at what he considered the effect of his influence. It is impossible to discover the cause which had prompted him to talk so insultingly to his lord and master: some attribute it to the disappointment of dishonest expectations, supposing that he intended to abstract any jewellery which might be deposited as a memento in the foundation; while others imagine that his chief must have previously offended him, and that the insult was intended; but more probably his main object was to ingratiate himself with the stranger.
M’Raonuil lived in a small solitary cottage, a considerable distance from the residence of his chief, and, late on the night in question, he was startled in his slumbers by a loud knocking at his door; he arose trembling, with a secret dread of something unknown, and shuddered involuntarily as he opened his door to discover the cause of this disturbance. He opened it, and lo! there stood his chief, alone, with a naked dagger in one hand, and a dark lantern in the other, frowning like a spirit of vengeance. The frightened vassal at this terrific sight quickly sank on his bended knee to implore his chieftain’s grace and mercy, his heart bursting with remorse and sorrow, but the ear of vengeance would not listen to the importunities of remorse, nor to the supplicating sighs of fear. ‘Come,’ said the stern and angry chief, ‘arise, shake off that ague fit and follow me, for I require your service!’ To disobey the chief was a crime unknown and unheard of in those days, and his peremptory command and determined appearance showed the vassal that remonstrance or question was vain and futile; so with a tremulous hand he arrayed himself in his best apparel, and with a bursting and yearning heart—
He bade his wife and children dear, A long, a last adieu,
and mournfully prepared to follow his chief. They sallied forth in silence and in gloom, the doomed man (for he knew his fate was sealed), marched sullenly behind. Neither seemed inclined to disturb the drowsy stillness which reigned around them; and as they marched along, the owl’s screech voice assailed the vassal’s ear, proclaiming the ominous words, ‘man prepare to die,’ and ever and anon, when the glare of the chief’s dim lantern gleamed upon him, it exhibited to the unhappy victim the diabolical smile which grinned on his chief’s countenance at the proximity of such a feast of vengeance. At length they reached the castle, in the deep silence of midnight! where the chief, pointing to a gloomy excavation which he had caused that night to be made in its foundation, desired his vassal to enter, which, without the least hesitation, he did, mourning as he went, and wringing his hands in utter grief. As soon as he entered he saw the muscular chief with great difficulty roll a ponderous stone over the mouth of his dim and dreary sepulchre, and heard him chanting to himself, as in mockery, the M’Raonuil’s dirge; but these cheerless sounds soon grew faint and ultimately died away.
The chief now quitted the castle, intending to drown all thoughts of its forlorn captive, amidst the riot and luxurious turbulence which a chieftain’s life afforded, but he found himself mistaken. The foul deed he had that night performed made a deep and indelible impression on his mind, and go where he would he wandered like a forlorn outcast, changed, dejected, and thoughtful.
Wherever he roamed his weeping captive came trembling to his mind. If awake, it was of him, and him only, that he thought, and if asleep, he dreamed only of him, and, often in the deep stillness of night, a sullen voice whispered in his ear—‘the heavy punishment you have inflicted on your clansman is too severe for the venal crime he committed, therefore you cannot expect to fight victoriously under such a load of guilt.’
It happened that at this time the chief was about to enter into a struggle with an aggressive and powerful neighbour, and on the result of this combat depended his own and clansmen’s lives. Their antagonists were far superior in point of number, and were warriors renowned for their wonderful exploits—for fearlessness, daring, and courage; but they were a ruthless and relentless enemy, and whatever they vanquished they utterly destroyed. They seemed to fight not for any chivalrous honour, but rather from the devilish pleasure they had in reducing to ashes that which other men took months and years to build. In short, these spoilers took great umbrage at the chief of Glengarry, which meant certain destruction, unless he could defeat them in arms, and so he, in desperation, determined, as his only chance of safety, to hazard a battle. Yes! he would have a struggle, a fierce and furious struggle, ere he sank beneath the iron hand of a despotic rival: and if he did fall, he, like the dying lion, would wound the earth in his throes. He would not bleed like the bleating lamb, nor would he imitate the timid hind, and seek safety by flight! No! he had fangs like the wolf, and with these he would tear the flesh from the bones of his oppressor.
On the tenth day after the captivity of his late favourite, he had his clan marshalled and under arms, awaiting the approach of the foe whom he had challenged to meet him there, to settle their dispute by open combat. His warriors were all burning for distinction in the field, but none more ardently than himself, and as he glanced proudly along their line he smiled on hearing them curse the lazy foe, who lagged so tardily on their way to meet him. This was in the vicinity of the rising castle, and as he wished to enter the fight as guiltless as possible, it struck him that he had better relieve himself, if possible, from the guilt of his prisoner’s undeserved misery, and to effect this purpose, he stole unperceived to the vault, and with the assistance of a common plank, used as a lever, he soon raised up the huge stone, and having placed a sufficient counterpoise to preserve the entrance, he entered, but scarcely had he done so when snap went the lever, and down came the stone with a tremendous force. In an instant he perceived the fearful calamity which had befallen him. He knew that all was now over, for it was impossible to remove the stone, from the interior of the vault; and, in terrible despair, he sat, or threw himself down, writhing with extreme mental agony. To make his misery greater he heard (or thought he heard) his trusty clansmen expressing their amazement at his unexpected and cowardly desertion, and heard (or thought he heard) the sentinels, whom he himself had placed, proclaim with extended lungs—‘The foe! they come! they come!’ Then he heard the din of war on the heath, and the shock of battle sound, ‘like a crash of echoing thunder,’ and then the shout triumphant of his foes—and oh! he would have given his very soul’s redemption for power to arise from that murky dungeon and stalk to the midst of the combat like an angel of death—
And perish if it must be so, At bay destroying many a foe.
When the sounds of strife and every hope had died away, the shout triumphant, and the dying yells, he thought on the lone sharer of his captivity, whom he could discover was still alive, and he wondered that the soul, ever eager as an iron bound prisoner to escape, should be enticed by such misery to linger—for his part he would rather flutter like the butterfly through its sweet though short career, than live, like the toad, a thousand years prisoner to a marble block. As he mused thus in painful silence his deliverers arrived. They were his victorious foes—and those of his own clan who had survived the field of battle—the little remnant who had but now given his little band like chaff to the four warring winds of the earth. They came in quest of riches, which they supposed had been deposited in the vault. The stone was rolled away, and one by one they dropped into the vault, but each as he entered, fell a victim to the fury of its angry and exasperated inmate, who shortly afterwards, with the aid of his old favourite vassal, quitted its gloomy precincts, leaving his enemy and his laurels there to wither and to die.
CASTLE URQUHART AND
THE FUGITIVE LOVERS.
Glen-Urquhart, where Castle Urquhart is situated, is one of the most beautiful of our Highland valleys, distant from Inverness some fourteen miles, and expands first from the waters of Loch-Ness into a semi-circular plain, divided into fields by hedgerows, and having its hill-sides beautifully diversified by woods and cultivated grounds. The valley then runs upwards some ten miles to Corriemonie, through a tract of haugh-land beautifully cultivated, and leading to a rocky pass or gorge half-way upwards or thereabouts, which, on turning, an inland valley, as it were, is attained, almost circular, and containing Loch-Meiglie, a beautiful small sheet of water, the edges of which are studded with houses, green lawns, and cultivated grounds. Over a heathy ridge beyond these, two or three miles, we reach the flat of Corriemonie, adorned by some very large ash and beech trees, where the land is highly cultivated, at an elevation of eight or nine hundred feet above, and twenty-five miles distant from, the sea. At the base of Mealfourvonie, a small circular lake, of a few acres in extent, exists, which was once thought to be unfathomable, and to have a subterranean communication with Loch-Ness. From it flows the Aultsigh Burn, a streamlet which, tumbling down a rocky channel, at the base of one of the grandest frontlets of rock in the Highlands, nearly fifteen hundred feet high, empties itself into Loch-Ness within three miles of Glenmoriston. Besides the magnificent and rocky scenery to be seen in the course of this burn, it displays, at its mouth, an unusually beautiful waterfall, and another about two miles further up, shaded with foliage of the richest colour. A tributary of the Coiltie, called the Dhivach, amid beautiful and dense groves of birch, displays a waterfall as high and picturesque as that of Foyers; and near the source of the Enneric River, which flows from Corriemonie into the still waters of Loch-Meiglie, another small, though highly picturesque cascade, called the Fall of Moral, is to be seen. Near it is a cave large enough to receive sixteen or twenty persons. Several of the principal gentlemen of the district concealed themselves here from the Hanoverian troops during the troubles of the ’45.
On the southern promontory of Urquhart Bay are the ruins of the Castle, rising over the dark waters of the Loch, which, off this point, is 125 fathoms in depth. The castle has the appearance of having been a strong and extensive building. The mouldings of the corbel table which remain are as sharp as on the day they were first carved, and indicate a date about the beginning of the 14th century. The antiquary will notice a peculiar arrangement in the windows, for pouring molten lead on the heads of the assailants. It overhangs the lake, and is built on a detached rock separated from the adjoining hill, at the base of which it lies, by a moat of about twenty-five feet deep and sixteen feet broad. The rock is crowned by the remains of a high wall or curtain, surrounding the building, the principal part of which, a strong square keep of three storeys, is still standing, surmounted by four square hanging turrets. This outward wall encloses a spacious yard, and is in some places terraced. In the angles were platforms for the convenience of the defending soldiery. The entrance was by a spacious gateway between two guard rooms, projected beyond the general line of the walls, and was guarded by more than one massive portal and huge portcullis to make security doubly sure. These entrance towers were much in the style of architecture peculiar to the Castles of Edward I. of England, and in front of them lay the drawbridge across the outer moat. The whole works were extensive and strong, and the masonry was better finished than is common in the generality of Scottish strongholds.
The first siege Urquhart Castle is known to have sustained was in the year 1303, when it was taken by the officers of Edward I. who were sent forward by him, to subdue the country, from Kildrummie, near Nairn, beyond which he did not advance in person, and of all the strongholds in the North, it was that which longest resisted his arms.
Alexander de Bois, the brave governor, and his garrison, were put to the sword. Sir Robert Lauder of Quarrelwood, in Morayshire, governor of the Castle in A.D. 1332, maintained it against the Baliol faction. His daughter, marrying the Earl of Strathglass, the offspring of their union, Sir Robert Chisholm of that Ilk, became Laird of Quarrelwood in right of his grandfather. After this period it is known to have been a Royal fort or garrison; but it is very likely it was so also at the commencement of the 14th century, and existed as such in the reigns of the Alexanders and other Scottish sovereigns, and formed one of a chain of fortresses erected for national defence, and for insuring internal peace. In 1359 the barony and the Castle of Urquhart were disponed by David II. to William, Earl of Sutherland, and his son John. In 1509 it fell into the hands of the chief of the Clan Grant, and in that family’s possession it has continued to this day.
How it came into the possession of John Grant, the 10th Laird, surnamed the ‘Bard,’ is not known; but it was not won by the broadsword, from Huntly, the Lieutenant-General of the King. It has been the boast of the chiefs of the Clan Grant that no dark deeds of rapine and blood have been transmitted to posterity by any of their race. Their history is unique among Highland clans, in that, down to the period of the disarming after Culloden, the broadswords of the Grants were as spotless as a lady’s bodkin. True it is, there were some dark deeds enacted between the Grants of Carron and Ballindalloch, and at the battles of Cromdale and Culloden the Grants of Glenmoriston were present; but far otherwise was the boast of the Grants of Strathspey—a gifted ancestry seemed to transmit hereditary virtues, and each successive scion of the house seemed to emulate the peaceful habits of his predecessor. That this amiable life did not conceal craven hearts is abundantly evident from the history of our country. There is a continual record of gallant deeds and noble bearing in their records down to the present time, and there are few families whose names, like the Napiers and the Grants, are more conspicuous in our military annals. But their rise into a powerful clan was due to the more peaceful gifts, of ‘fortunate alliances’ and ‘royal bounties.’
It is much to be regretted that so little has been transmitted to posterity of the history of this splendid ruin of Castle Urquhart.
The probability is that it is connected with many a dark event over which the turbulence of the intervening period and the obscurity of its situation have cast a shade of oblivion.
The most prominent part of the present mass, the fine square tower at the north-eastern extremity of the building, is supposed to have been the keep, and is still pretty entire. From this point, the view is superb. It commands Loch-Ness from one end to the other, and is an object on which the traveller fixes an admiring gaze as the steamer paddles her merry way along the mountain-shadowed water. On a calm day the dashing echo of the Fall of Foyers bursts fitfully across the Loch, and when the meridian sun lights up the green earth after a midsummer shower, a glimpse of the distant cataract may be occasionally caught, slipping like a gloriously spangled avalanche to the dark depths below. The story in which the castle was the principal scene of action is quite characteristic of the times referred to. A gentleman of rank, who had been out with the Prince and had been wounded at Culloden, found himself on the evening of that disastrous day on the banks of the River Farigaig, opposite Urquhart Castle. He had been helped so far by two faithful retainers, one of whom, a fox-hunter, was a native of the vale of Urquhart. This man, perceiving the gentleman was unable to proceed further, and seeing a boat moored to the shore, proposed that they should cross to the old Castle, in a vault of which, known only to a few of the country people, they might remain secure from all pursuit. The hint was readily complied with, and in less than a couple of hours they found themselves entombed in the ruins of Urquhart Castle, where sleep shortly over-powered them, and the sun was high in the heavens next day ere any of them awoke. The gentleman’s wound having been partially dressed, the fox-hunter’s comrade yawningly observed ‘that a bit of something to eat would be a Godsend.’ ‘By my troth it would,’ said the fox-hunter, ‘and if my little Mary knew aught of poor Eoghainn Brocair’s (Ewan the fox-hunter) plight, she would endeavour to relieve him though Sassenach bullets were flying about her ears.’ ‘By heaven! our lurking-place is discovered!’ whispered the gentleman, ‘do you not observe a shadow hovering about the entrance.’ ’Tis the shadow of a friend,’ replied the Brocair; and in an instant a long-bodied, short-legged Highland terrier sprung into the vault. ‘Craicean, a dhuine bhochd,’ said the overjoyed fox-hunter, hugging the faithful animal to his bosom, ‘this is the kindest visit you ever paid me.’ As soon as the shades of evening had darkened their retreat, Eoghainn untied his garter, and binding it round the dog’s neck, caressed him, and pointing up the Glen, bade him go and bring the Brocair some food. The poor terrier looked wistfully in his face, and with a shake of his tail, quietly took his departure. In about four hours ‘Craicean’ reappeared, and endeavoured by every imaginable sign to make Eoghainn follow him outside. With this the Brocair complied, but in a few seconds he re-entered, accompanied by another person. Eoghainn having covered the only entrance to the cave with their plaids, struck a light and introduced to his astonished friends his betrothed, young Mary Maclauchlan. The poor girl had understood by the garter which bound the terrier’s neck, and which she herself had woven, that her Eoghainn was in the neighbourhood, and hastened to his relief with all the ready provisions she could procure; and not least, in the estimation of at least two of the fugitives, the feeling maiden had brought them a sip of unblemished whisky. In this manner they had been supplied with aliment for some time, when one night their fair visitor failed to come as usual. This, though it created no immediate alarm, somewhat astonished them; but when the second night came and neither Mary nor her shaggy companion appeared, Eoghainn’s uneasiness on Mary’s account overcame every other feeling, and, in spite of all remonstrance, he ventured forth to ascertain the cause of her delay. The night was dark and squally, and Eoghainn was proceeding up his native glen like one who felt that the very sound of his tread might betray him to death. With a beating heart he had walked upwards of two miles, when his ears were saluted with the distant report of a musket. Springing aside, he concealed himself in a thicket which overhung the river. Here he remained but a very short time when he was joined by the Craicean dragging after him a cord several yards in length. This circumstance brought the cold sweat from the brow of the Brocair. He knew that their enemies were in pursuit of them, that the cord had been affixed to the dog’s neck in order that he might lead to their place of concealment; and alas! Eoghainn feared much that his betrothed was at the mercy of his pursuers. What was to be done? The moment was big with fate, but he was determined to meet it like a man. Cutting the cord and whispering to the terrier, “cul mo chois” (back of my heel) he again ventured to the road and moved warily onward. On arriving at an old wicker-wrought barn, he saw a light streaming from it, when creeping towards it, he observed a party of the enemy surrounding poor Mary Maclauchlan, who was, at the moment, undergoing a close examination by their officer. ‘Come girl,’ said he ‘though that blind rascal has let your dog, who would certainly have introduced us to the rebels, escape, you will surely consult your own safety by guiding me to the spot; nay, I know you will, here is my purse in token of my future friendship, and in order to conceal your share in the transaction you and I shall walk together to a place where you may point me out the lurking place of these fellows, and leave the rest to me; and do you,’ continued he, turning to his party, ‘remain all ready until you hear a whistle, when instantly make for the spot.’ The Brocair crouched, as many a time he did, but never before did his heart beat at such a rate. As the officer and his passive guide took the road to the old Castle, Eoghainn followed close in their wake, and, when they had proceeded about a mile from the barn, they came upon the old hill road when Mary made a dead halt, as if quite at a loss how to act. ‘Proceed, girl,’ thundered the officer, ‘I care not one farthing for my own life, and if you do not instantly conduct me to the spot where the bloody rebels are concealed, this weapon,’ drawing his sword, ‘shall within two minutes penetrate your cunning heart.’ The poor girl trembled and staggered as the officer pointed the sword at her bosom, when the voice of Eoghainn fell on his ear like the knell of death, ‘Turn your weapon this way, brave sir’, said the Brocair, ‘Turn it this way,’ and in a moment the officer and his shivered sword lay at his feet. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ screamed the fainting girl, ‘meddle not with his life.’ ‘No, no, Mary; I shall not dirty my hands in his blood. I have only given him the weight of my oak sapling, so that he may sleep soundly till we are safe from the fangs of his bloodhounds.’ That very night the fugitives left Urquhart Castle and got safe to the forests of Badenoch, where they skulked about with Lochiel and his few followers until the gentleman escaped to France, when Eoghainn Brocair and his companion ventured once more, as they themselves expressed it, ‘to the communion of Christians.’ The offspring of the Brocair and Mary Maclauchlan are still in Lochaber.
THE FAIRIES AND
DONALD DUAGHAL MACKAY.
Mankind in all ages have been prone to superstitious beliefs and hero-worship. The most enlightened nations of ancient or modern times have not been more exempt from them than the most ignorant. The ancient Chaldeans, Babylonians, and Egyptians were grossly superstitious, believing in magic, omens, and dreams. The Jews possessing intimate knowledge of a Supreme Being, universally ruling, were not free from similar practices acquired during their four hundred years contact with the Egyptians while sojourning on the banks of the Nile. The Greeks and Romans were not a whit better; they deified their heroes, put faith in oracles, divinations and dreams. They imagined that bees, ants, and various birds, beasts, and reptiles had the power of giving omens of good or bad fortune. They had gods celestial and gods terrestrial, and subterranean gods. The appearance of eclipses and comets were to them ominous of public disasters. The Scandinavians had their own fanciful mythology, their Odens, their Thors, their Balders, their Niords, their Triggas, and their Treyas, and a vast dread of the Elfin, Dwarf, and Great tribes. The Anglo-Saxon, in common with the Scandinavian, believed in these deities, and in others peculiar to the Goths. They had idols emblematical of the sun, moon, earth, and the various seasons. The Easter festivals of the Christian Church are supposed to have been derived from the name of the Anglo-Saxon goddess Eastre, to whom they made sacrifices in the month of April. The burning of the log of wood in December was a sacrifice to the sun, as an emblem of returning light, the days then beginning to lengthen; and from this ancient practice may be traced the custom of burning the yule log at Christmas, a practice still common, I believe, in parts of England. They had also their beliefs in giants, elfs, and dwarfs, which haunted the fields, woods, mountains, rivers, and lakes, alike in character to the demi-gods and other imaginary spirits of the Grecian and Roman superstitions; but worse still, to the Anglo-Saxon is ascribed the introduction to England and Scotland of the more dangerous doctrine of witchcraft and divinations, before which the reasoning power of the people quailed, and all intellectual advancement was impeded.
The Celts are credited with originating the fairy superstition, though it is unknown from what cause. In Scotland and other countries in which Celtic traditions predominate, the fairies were regarded on the whole as little given to malevolence; on the contrary, ready to help mankind at times, though when offended they exhibited an admixture of the malignant spirit of the elf and the dwarf of the Scandinavian, who introduced the belief in them to the Celts. Most spirits were supposed to have the attribute of enlarging or contracting their bulk at will; the fairy alone was regarded as essentially diminutive in size, the miniature of a human being, perfect in form, clad in pure green, brilliant and rich beyond conception, inhabiting subterranean palaces of indescribable splendour, and innumerable in numbers. They were represented as continually feasting, dancing, and making merry, or moving in procession amongst the shady green grass and verdant lawns of earth, entertained with the most harmonious and melodious music that mortal ear ever listened to, observant of the doings of mankind, and not unwilling to help them to overcome such unusual or extraordinary difficulties, if called upon, as my story tells.
Donald Duaghal having returned from the wars in Germany to his own country, where his fame preceded him, was a great hero, in the estimation of his retainers. His extraordinary valour, his feats of daring, his fearless conduct, his escaping comparatively scathless of wounds out of all the skirmishes, sieges, and battles in which he took a leading share; all this, magnified by the stories related of him by the few retainers who survived and returned home with him into the Reay country, threw around the man a halo of romance that gave rise to the belief that he must have had a charmed life, and, it might be, some occult relations with the ‘Droch Spiorad’ and the ‘Black art’ in his travels abroad. ‘Nach robh e san Edailt for an d’iunnsaich e an sgoil dubh?’—Italy being the country above all others in which the ‘black art’ was to be acquired. But Donald was never in Italy. It did not matter to Clann Mhic Aoidh. They did not trouble themselves much about correct geography; their chief was abroad; he might have been in Italy; and that was sufficient for the unsophisticated and unlettered people surrounding their beloved chief who had seen much in his travels and campaigns in Norway, Sweden, Germany, and Poland. He had crossed rivers and estuaries, and transported his soldiers over them by bridges of boats constructed by Swedish and Danish military engineers in very little time, even while his soldiers were taking a hasty meal, Donald himself urging on the work and lending a hand—all this was related in Tongue, much to the astonishment of the natives around, who could not believe it. They could not understand how an estuary like the Kyle of Tongue could be bridged in half-an-hour. The feat was too marvellous to be true, and if true there must have been some supernatural assistance. But could he not do anything? Did he not learn the ‘black art’ in Italy? Rumour went and was magnified, till in the long run it was believed that nothing was impossible to Donald. It was rumoured that he intended to throw a bridge over the estuary from Tongue to Melness. This report got wings and was believed. The knowing ones were incredulous, but the credulous had no doubt he could and would do it. Has he not the ‘black art?’ besides, can he not send to the ‘Cailleach Mhor’ in Dornoch? get her to send him the fairies, and the bridge will be built before morning. This was so much talked about that it became a received opinion that Donald Duaghal was supposed to have actually attempted the feat. He sent his Gille to Dornoch to the Cailleach requesting her as a special favour to send him fairies to construct a bridge across the Kyle of Tongue. The Cailleach Mhor consulted the fairy queen, and she, willing to do anything for so brave a man as Donald Duaghal, gave the Cailleach a box to be conveyed to Donald. The Cailleach gave the box to the Gille with strict and peremptory injunctions not to open it till he had delivered it into his master’s hands. Alas! for weak humanity, always prying into secrets, always doing the forbidden—the greater the restriction, the greater the temptation to disobey. In an unlucky moment, going over the Crask, he opened the box, when lo! in an instant, around him and about him on all sides were myriads of tiny creatures, hammer in hand, shrilly clamouring ‘Obair, obair, obair’ (Work, work, work). Nonplused with the extraordinary sight, confounded for a moment with the effect of his disobedience of orders, Mackay’s man was equal to the occasion. Rapidly recovering his presence of mind and appreciating his position, he ordered his importunate companions to set to work and pluck up the heather off the whole hillside upon which they were. No sooner ordered than it was done, and the same clamour was resumed of ‘Obair, obair, obair.’ Driven by this almost to desperation he ordered his little companions to fly away to Dornoch Firth opposite Tain, and there build a bridge for the accommodation of the lieges of Dornoch and Baile Dhuthaich. Instantly they went, and commenced operations, throwing up the sand in clouds to form an embankment, but as ill-luck would have it, some person passing the way about cock-crowing time, hearing the noise and uproar exclaimed ‘Dhia beannaich mis, ciod e an obair tha’n so’(God bless me, what work is this). Work was instantly suspended never to be resumed, in consequence of God’s name being mentioned, and a blessing asked on the work; and well would it have been, had it never been commenced, for the sand accumulated by the fairies in that night’s work forms the dangerous shoals between Dornoch and Tain to this day, the sea roaring over them at every tide, and the noise of the waves heard at the distance of many a mile, portends to the natives the advent of foul weather. To this day the place is called Drochaid na h’Aogh, or the Elfin Bridge.
It is lamentable to contemplate how such vain imaginations as these should have so long weighed upon the intelligence and perception of the people; but it may be asked, were they not fostered in a great measure after the introduction of Christianity? when, through persecution, religion assumed the garb of gloom and fanaticism, when belief in the personal appearance of the devil was universal, and continued till within recent years in the vulgar mind?
Ignorance is justly termed the mother of superstition. Wherever mankind are least accustomed to trace events to natural causes superstitious notions flourish most luxuriantly. When the mind once allows that matters of ordinary and natural occurrence may take place by the interference of the supernatural, there is obviously no limit to the actions they are supposed to perform. In the present age of comparative intelligence it is difficult to comprehend how human beings could be so deplorably ignorant of natural causes and effects as to entertain for a moment such gross notions of the supernatural, and yet, in this nineteenth century, we can observe similar forces at work even in the most respectable ranks of society—Mormonism, Southcotism, spirit-rapping, table-turning. The Saxon of modern days has more superstitious notions in his composition than the Celt, notwithstanding his boastful superiority and pride in being more enlightened and freer from prejudice than any other. He calls his superstitions ‘customs,’ and so reconciles himself to them. Does he like to sit down the thirteenth person at the table or festive board? Does he believe in lucky and unlucky days? Does he believe in the appearance, as a good or evil omen, of two or three magpies when setting out upon a journey? Does he like a hare to cross his path? or the upsetting of salt on the table? the howling of dogs, the cracking of furniture, the tickling noise of an insect in old furniture, the putting on the left shoe first? When he relinquishes these he may hurl his stone of scorn at the Celt for his belief in the Sithichean.
YOUNG GLENGARRY,
THE BLACK RAVEN
Once upon a time Old Glengarry was very unpopular with all the northern chiefs, in consequence of his many raids and creachs among the surrounding tribes, but although he was now advanced in years and unable to lead his clan in person, none of the neighbouring chiefs could muster courage to beard him in his den single-handed. There was never much love lost between him and the chief of the Mackenzies, and about this time some special offence was given to the latter by the Macdonells, which the chief of Eileandonan swore would have to be revenged; and the insult must be wiped out at whatever cost. His clan was at that time very much subdivided, and he felt himself quite unable to cope with Glengarry in arms. Mackenzie, however, far excelled his enemy in ready invention, and possessed a degree of subtlety which usually more than made up for his enemy’s superior physical power.
‘Kintail’ managed to impress his neighbouring chiefs with the belief that Glengarry proposed, and was making arrangements, to take them all by surprise and annihilate them by one fell swoop, and that in these circumstances it was imperative, for their mutual safety, to make arrangements forthwith by which the danger would be obviated and the hateful author of such a diabolical scheme extinguished root and branch. By this means he managed to produce the most bitter prejudice against Glengarry and his clan; but all of them being convinced of the folly and futility of meeting the ‘Black Raven,’ as he was called, man to man and clan to clan, Mackenzie invited them to meet him at a great council in Eileandonan Castle, the following week, to discuss the best means of protecting their mutual interests, and to enter into a solemn league, and swear on the ‘raven’s cross’ to exterminate the hated Glengarry and his race, and to raze, burn, and plunder everything belonging to them.
Old Glengarry, whom the ravages of war had already reduced to one son out of several, and he only a youth of immature years, heard of the confederacy formed against him with great and serious concern. He well knew the impossibility of holding out against the combined influence and power of the Western Chiefs. His whole affections were concentrated on his only surviving son, and on realizing the common danger, he bedewed him with tears, and strongly urged upon him the dire necessity of fleeing from the land of his fathers to some foreign land until the danger had passed away. He, at the same time, called his clan together, absolved them from their allegiance, and implored them also to save themselves by flight; and to their honour be it said, one and all spurned the idea of leaving their chief in his old age alone to his fate, exclaiming—‘that death itself was preferable to shame and dishonour.’ To the surprise of all, however, the son, dressed in his best garb, and armed to the teeth, after taking a formal and affectionate farewell of his father, took to the hills amidst the contemptuous sneers of his brave retainers. But he was no sooner out of sight than he directed his course to Lochduich, determined to attend the great council at Eileandonan Castle, at which his father’s fate was to be sealed. He arrived in the district on the appointed day, and carefully habilitating himself in a fine Mackenzie tartan plaid, with which he had provided himself, he made for the stronghold and passed the outer gate with the usual salutation—‘Who is welcome here?’ and passed by unheeded, the guard replying in the most unsuspicious manner—‘Any, any but a Macdonell.’ On being admitted to the great hall he carefully scanned the brilliant assembly. The Mackenzie plaid had put the company completely off their guard; for in those days no one would ever dream of wearing the tartan of any but that of his own leader. The chiefs had already, as they entered the great hall, drawn their dirks and stuck them in the tables before them as an earnest of their unswerving resolution to rid the world of their hated enemy. The brave and intrepid stranger coolly walked up to the head of the table, where the Chief of Kintail presided over the great council, threw off his disguise, seized Mackenzie by the throat, drew out his glittering dagger, held it against his enemy’s heart, and exclaimed with a voice and a determination which struck terror into every breast—‘Mackenzie, if you or any of your assembled guests make the slightest movement, as I live, by the great Creator of the universe, I will instantly pierce you to the heart.’ Mackenzie well knew by the appearance of the youth, and the commanding tone of his voice, that the threat would be instantly executed if any movement was made, and he tremulously exclaimed—‘My friends, for the love of God, stir not, lest I perish at the hands of my inveterate foe at my own table.’ The appeal was hardly necessary, for all were terror-stricken and confused, sitting with open mouths, gazing vacantly, at each other. ‘Now,’ said the young hero, ‘lift up your hands to heaven and swear by the Long, am Bradan, agus an Lamh Dhearg (the ship, the salmon, and the bloody hand), that you will never again molest my father or any of his clan.’ ‘I do now swear as you request’ answered the confused chief. ‘Swear now,’ continued the dauntless youth, ‘you, and all ye round this table, that I will depart from here and be permitted to go home unmolested by you or any of your retainers.’ All, with uplifted hands, repeated the oath. Young Glengarry released his hold on Mackenzie’s throat sheathed his dirk and prepared to take his departure, but was, curious to relate, prevailed upon to remain at the feast and spend the night with the sworn enemies of his race and kindred, and the following morning they parted the best of friends. And thus, by the daring of a stripling, was Glengarry saved the fearful doom that awaited him. The youth ultimately became famous as one of the most courageous warriors of his race. He fought many a single combat with powerful combatants, and invariably came off victorious. He invaded and laid waste Glenmoriston, Urquhart, and Caithness. His life had been one scene of varied havoc, victory, ruin, and bloodshed. He entered into a fierce encounter with one of the Munros of Fowlis, but ultimately met the same fate at the hands of the ‘grim tyrant’ as the greatest coward in the land, and his body lies buried in the churchyard of Tuiteam-tarbhach.
