PART I.
“The gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into air, like a column of smoke which the staff of the boy disturbs as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace.”
Ossian.
THE
HIGHLAND SUPERSTITIONS.
CHAPTER I.
OF THE HIGHLAND GHOSTS IN GENERAL.
Of whatever country, station, or character the reader may be, we presume it will be unnecessary for us, on this our outset, to intrude upon his time by entering into a logical definition of the term Ghost. There is perhaps no nation or clime, from California to Japan, where that very ancient and fantastic race of beings called Ghosts is not, under different terms and different characters, more or less familiar to the inhabitants. We do not mean, however, to follow this fleeting race of patriarchs throughout their wide course of wandering and colonisation from the beginning of time to the present day—as, in all likelihood, our research would turn out equally arduous and unprofitable; we confine our lucubrations to the colony of the tribe which, from time immemorial, have settled themselves among the inhabitants of the Highland Mountains.
Be it known then to the reader, that, so early as the days of Ossian, the son of Fingal, and ever since, ghosts have been at all times a plentiful commodity among the hills of Caledonia. Every native Highlander has allied to him, from his birth, one of those airy beings in the character of an auxiliary or helpmate, who continues his companion, not only during all the days of the Highlander’s life, but also for an indefinite period of time after his decease. It will be readily believed that this ancient class of our mountaineers cannot have descended through so many changeful ages of the world without sharing, in some measure, those revolutions of manners and habits to which all classes and communities of people are equally liable. Accordingly the ghost has suffered as great a degeneracy from that majesty of person and chivalry of habits which anciently distinguished the primitive inhabitants of Caledonia, as his mortal contemporary, man. Unlike the present puny, green, worm-eaten effigies that now-a-days stalk about our premises, and, like the cameleon, feed upon the air, the ancient race of Highland ghosts were a set of stout, lusty, sociable ghosts, “as tall as a pine, and as broad as a house.” Differing widely in his habits from those of his posterity, the ghost of antiquity would enter the habitation of man, descant a lee-long night upon the news of the times, until the long-wished-for supper was once prepared, when this pattern of frankness and good living would invite himself to the table, and do as much justice to a bicker of Highland crowdie as his earthly contemporaries. Indeed, if all tales be true, many centuries are not elapsed since those social practices of the ghosts of the day proved an eminent pest to society. With voracious appetites, those greedy gormandizers were in the habit of visiting the humble hamlets, where superabundance of store seldom resided, and of ravishing from the grasp of a starving progeny the meagre fare allotted to their support.
Beyond their personal attractions, however, it is believed they displayed few enviable qualities; for, besides their continual depredations on the goods and chattels of the adjacent hamlets, they were ill-natured and cruel, and cared not a spittle for woman or child. The truth of this remark is well exemplified in the history of two celebrated ghosts, who “once upon a time” lived, or rather existed, in the Wilds of Craig-Aulnaic, a romantic place in the district of Strathdown, Banffshire. The one was a male, and the other a female. The male was called Fhua Mhoir Bein Baynac, after one of the mountains of Glenavon, where at one time he resided; and the female was called Clashnichd Aulnaic, from her having had her abode in Craig-Aulnaic. But, although the great ghost of Ben-Baynac was bound, by the common ties of nature and of honour, to protect and cherish his weaker companion, Clashnichd Aulnaic, yet he often treated her in the most cruel and unfeeling manner. In the dead of night, when the surrounding hamlets were buried in deep repose, and when nothing else disturbed the solemn stillness of the midnight scene, “oft,” says our narrator, “would the shrill shrieks of poor Clashnichd burst upon the slumberer’s ears, and awake him to any thing but pleasant reflections.”
But of all those who were incommoded by the noisy and unseemly quarrels of these two ghosts, James Owre or Gray, the tenant of the farm of Balbig of Delnabo, was the greatest sufferer. From the proximity of his abode to their haunts, it was the misfortune of himself and family to be the nightly audience of Clashnichd’s cries and lamentations, which they considered any thing but agreeable entertainment.
One day, as James Gray was on his rounds looking after his sheep, he happened to fall in with Clashnichd, the Ghost of Aulnaic, with whom he entered into a long conversation. In the course of this conversation he took occasion to remonstrate with her on the very disagreeable disturbance she caused himself and family, by her wild and unearthly cries,—cries which, he said, few mortals could relish in the dreary hours of midnight. Poor Clashnichd, by way of apology for her conduct, gave James Gray a sad account of her usage, detailing at full length the series of cruelties committed upon her by Ben-Baynac. From this account, it appeared that her cohabitation with the latter was by no means a matter of choice with Clashnichd; on the contrary, it appeared that she had, for a long time, led a life of celibacy with much comfort, residing in a snug dwelling, as already mentioned, in the wilds of Craig-Aulnaic; but Ben-Baynac having unfortunately taken it into his head to pay her a visit, he took a fancy, not to herself, but her dwelling, of which, in his own name and authority, he took immediate possession, and soon after expelled poor Clashnichd, with many stripes, from her natural inheritance; while, not satisfied with invading and depriving her of her just rights, he was in the habit of following her into her private haunts, not with the view of offering her any endearments, but for the purpose of inflicting on her person every degrading torment which his brain could invent.
Such a moving relation could not fail to affect the generous heart of James Gray, who determined from that moment to risk life and limb in order to vindicate the rights and revenge the wrongs of poor Clashnichd the Ghost of Craig-Aulnaic. He therefore took good care to interrogate his new protegé touching the nature of her oppressor’s constitution, whether he was of that killable species of ghost that could be shot with a silver sixpence, or if there was any other weapon that could possibly accomplish his annihilation. Clashnichd informed him that she had occasion to know that Ben-Baynac was wholly invulnerable to all the weapons of man, with the exception of a large mole on his left breast, which was no doubt penetrable by silver or steel; but that, from the specimens she had of his personal prowess and strength, it were vain for mere man to attempt to combat Ben-Baynac the great ghost. Confiding, however, in his expertness as an archer—for he was allowed to be the best marksman of his age—James Gray told Clashnichd he did not fear him with all his might,—that he was his man; and desired her, moreover, next time he chose to repeat his incivilities to her, to apply to him, James Gray, for redress.
It was not long ere he had an opportunity of fulfilling his promises. Ben-Baynac having one night, in the want of better amusement, entertained himself by inflicting an inhuman castigation on Clashnichd, she lost no time in waiting on James Gray, with a full and particular account of it. She found him smoking his cutty, and unbuttoning his habiliments for bed; but, notwithstanding the inconvenience of the hour, James needed no great persuasion to induce him to proceed directly along with Clashnichd to hold a communing with their friend Ben-Baynac the great ghost. Clashnichd was a stout sturdy hussey, who understood the knack of travelling much better than our women do. She expressed a wish that, for the sake of expedition, James Gray would mount himself on her ample shoulders, a motion to which the latter agreed; and a few minutes brought them close to the scene of Ben-Baynac’s residence. As they approached his haunt, he came forth to meet them, with looks and gestures which did not at all indicate a cordial welcome. It was a fine moonlight night, and they could easily observe his actions. Poor Clashnichd was now sorely afraid of the great ghost. Apprehending instant destruction from his fury, she exclaimed to James Gray that they would be both dead people, and that immediately, unless James could hit with an arrow the mole which covered Ben-Baynac’s heart. This was not so difficult a task as James had hitherto apprehended it. The mole was as large as a common bonnet, and yet nowise disproportioned to the natural size of his body, for he certainly was a great and a mighty ghost. Ben-Baynac cried out to James Gray, that he would soon make eagle’s-meat of him; and certain it is, such was his intention, had not James Gray so effectually stopped him from the execution of it. Raising his bow to his eye when within a few yards of Ben-Baynac, he took an important aim; the arrow flew—it hit—a yell from Ben-Baynac announced its fatality. A hideous howl re-echoed from the surrounding mountains, responsive to the groans of a thousand ghosts; and Ben-Baynac, like the smoke of a shot, evanished into air.[A]
Clashnichd, the Ghost of Aulnaic, now found herself emancipated from the most abject state of slavery, and restored to freedom and liberty, through the invincible courage of James Gray. Overpowered with gratitude, she fell at James Gray’s feet, and vowed to devote the whole of her time and talents towards his service and prosperity. Meanwhile, being anxious to have her remaining goods and furniture removed to her former dwelling, whence she had been so iniquitously expelled by Ben-Baynac the great ghost, she requested of her new master the use of his horses to remove them. James observing on the adjacent hill a flock of deer, and wishing to have a trial of his new servant’s sagacity or expertness, told her those were his horses,—she was welcome to the use of them; desiring, when she had done with them, that she would inclose them in his stable. Clashnichd then proceeded to make use of the horses, and James Gray returned home to enjoy his night’s rest.
Scarce had he reached his arm-chair, and reclined his cheek on his hand, to ruminate over the bold adventure of the night, when Clashnichd entered, with her “breath in her throat,” and venting the bitterest complaints at the unruliness of his horses, which had broken one-half of her furniture, and caused more trouble in the stabling of them than their services were worth. “Oh! they are stabled, then?” inquired James Gray. Clashnichd replied in the affirmative. “Very well,” rejoined James, “they shall be tame enough to-morrow.”
From this specimen of Clashnichd the Ghost of Craig-Aulnaic’s expertness, it will be seen what a valuable acquisition her service proved to James Gray and his young family; of which, however, they were too speedily deprived by a most unfortunate accident. From the sequel of the story, and of which the foregoing is but an extract, it appears that poor Clashnichd was but too deeply addicted to those guzzling propensities which at that time rendered her kin so obnoxious to their human neighbours. She was consequently in the habit of visiting her friends much oftener than she was invited, and, in the course of such visits, was never very scrupulous in making free with any eatables that fell within the circle of her observation.
One day, while engaged on a foraging expedition of this description, she happened to enter the Mill of Delnabo, which was inhabited in those days by the miller’s family. She found the miller’s wife engaged in roasting a large gridiron of fine savoury fish, the agreeable effluvia proceeding from which perhaps occasioned her visit. With the usual inquiries after the health of the miller and his family, Clashnichd proceeded, with the greatest familiarity and good humour, to make herself comfortable at the expense of their entertainment. But the miller’s wife, enraged at the loss of her fish, and not relishing such unwelcome familiarity, punished the unfortunate Clashnichd rather too severely for her freedom. It happened that there was at the time a large caldron of boiling water suspended over the fire, and this caldron the beldam of a miller’s wife overturned in Clashnichd’s bosom! Scalded beyond recovery, she fled up the wilds of Craig-Aulnaic, uttering the most melancholy lamentations, nor has she been ever since heard of to the present day.
CHAPTER II.
OF THE GHOST IN HIS CO-EXISTENT STATE—HIS PERSONAL SIMILITUDES AND HABITS.
Having, in the preceding chapter, endeavoured, as briefly as possible, to throw some light upon the general character of the primitive race of Highland ghosts in order to enable the reader to judge of the difference of manners which distinguished them from the modern ghosts, we shall now proceed to the consideration of the latter during the interval betwixt the birth and the eve of the death of the mortal, and which, for the sake of illustration, we shall call his co-existent state.
From the birth of the mortal to the eve of his death, the ghost, in point of similitude, is a perfect counterpart or representative of his earthly yoke-fellow. As the child grows towards manhood, his ghost keeps pace with him, and so exactly do they resemble each other in the features, complexions, and aspect, when seen by a third party, that, without the use of prescribed spells, no human observer can distinguish the mortal from the immortal. Nor is this resemblance confined to the personal appearance alone—it is likewise extended to the habiliments. Whether the mortal equips himself in the Highland garb or Lowland costume, the imitative ghost instantly assumes the same attire. The bonnet or the hat, the philibeg or the trews, are equally convenient and agreeable to him; for in this solitary particular he has never been known to dissent from his human partner.
During this period the ghost is supposed either to accompany or precede, at some distance, his human partner (of course invisible to those not possessing the second-sight) in all those multifarious journeys and duties which the mortal performs throughout the course of his eventful life, and the moral utility of the ghost is supposed to consist in propitiating the mortal’s undertakings by guarding them from the influence of evil spirits. But, however this may be, it is a well-known fact, that all ghosts do not devote the whole of their time to the discharge of this commendable duty. Common fame errs much if those capricious beings do not love their own pleasures more than their partner’s interest; and this their negligence is a subject of still deeper regret, when we consider the nature of those practices in which they employ their time.
If the appetites of the modern ghost are better restrained than those of his predecessors were in the “greedy times” we have written of, the mischievous habits he has acquired in lieu of his predecessor’s social accomplishments are to some far more calamitous than even Clashnichd’s practices. It is true, a dose of Highland crowdie would but ill agree with the refined delicacy of the stomach of the former. Such squeamish appetites must look out for more delicate and savoury food. But if the modern ghost does not possess those keen digestive powers which distinguished Clashnichd, he inherits all the ill nature of Ben-Baynac, without one-third of his might; and we question much if his regard for the fair sex is a bit more tender.
Instead of being the peaceable and industrious associate of his yoke-fellow, it is a common practice with the ghost of the present day to prowl about the country with the laudable intention of committing all the mischief in his power to the friends and acquaintances of his partner. Planting himself in some wild and convenient position, he will open on the ears of the slumbering inhabitants, or the more unfortunate traveller, his wild and unearthly cries, highly gratified, no doubt, at the paralyzing effect they produce on his audience. Of the hideousness of these cries nothing short of auric demonstration can convey an adequate conception. Partaking at once of all that is horrid and unnatural, if any resemblance to them can be figured, we are told it is the “expiring shrieks of a goat under the butcher’s knife, or the howling of a dog in a solitary cavern.” Proportioned to the strength of the ghost, the cry is loud or faint, and has something so peculiar in it, that the least note never fails to give the hearer a temporary palsy.
But were his practices confined to those comparatively harmless proceedings, the conduct of the ghost would be far less intolerable than it is. His vocal entertainments, however hurtful they sometimes prove to those unfortunate enough to hear them, are not sufficiently iniquitous to satisfy the extent of his malice. Being, no doubt, well disciplined in the noble and fashionable art of pugilism by long experience and practice among his kindred species, never remarkable for their social harmony, he is, perhaps, the best bruiser in the universe, and will never be backward in showing those people who come in his way his expertness in this science. As, however, the greatest part of his human contemporaries are, perhaps, too strikingly convinced of his decided superiority, few of them are disposed to hazard a set-to with so pithy a combatant, and it is consequently no easy matter for the ghost to fall in with those who are inclined to fight merely for fighting’s sake. Finding, therefore, so few willing to quarrel with him in that open and gentlemanlike manner usual in those countries, the fertility of his noddle suggests to him the more indirect or Irish mode of proceeding; and it is to this ingenious mode of raising a row that the Modern Ghost owes the most of his laurels. Presenting himself before the unsuspecting traveller in the servile appearance of a scabbed colt, or some such equally contemptible animal, he will in this guise place himself in the passenger’s way, as if to graze by the road’s side. Raising his staff, the passenger will very aptly apply it to the colt’s back to clear his way, when the malicious animal will instantly retort, and a conflict ensues, in which the unwary transgressor is severely punished for his indiscretion.
In former times, however, and even in recent times, we have heard of some instances where these wanton pugilists proceeded upon more honourable and systematic principles than they do at present. Instead of the dastardly mode of cajoling his adversary into a fight by stratagem, and conquering him by surprise, the warlike bogle of the last century carried about with him flails, cudgels, and such other pithy weapons as were suitable to the spirit of the times,—and on his meeting with a human adventurer who had no objection to become his antagonist, his choice of weapons was left with the latter. Hence it followed that this equitable and impartial mode of proceeding ended not unfrequently to the ghost’s great disadvantage; for the human bullies of those days were so diligently trained up to the handling of a flail or the wielding of a cudgel, that their ghostly combatants, with all their might and dexterity, have often been the first to propose an armistice. To multiply details of such encounters would be as tedious as they are numerous and similar; a single narrative, communicated to the compiler by the grand-nephew of the person concerned, will, we suppose, be sufficient to confirm our statements.
“Late one night, as my grand-uncle Lachlan Dhu Macpherson, who was well known as the best fiddler of his day, was returning home from a ball, at which he had acted as a musician, he had occasion to pass through the once haunted Bog of Torrans. Now, it happened at that time that that Bog was frequented by a huge bogle or ghost, who was of a most mischievous disposition, and took particular pleasure in abusing every traveller who had occasion to pass through the place betwixt the twilight at night and cock-crowing in the morning. Suspecting much that he would also come in for a share of his abuse, my grand-uncle made up his mind, in the course of his progress, to return him any civilities which he might think meet to offer him. On arriving on the spot, he found his suspicions were too well grounded; for whom did he see but the Ghost of Bogandoran, apparently ready waiting him, and seeming by his ghastly grin not a little overjoyed at the meeting? Then marching up to my grand-uncle, the bogle clapt a huge club into his hand, and furnishing himself with one of the same dimensions, he put a spittle in his hand, and deliberately commenced the combat. My grand-uncle returned the salute with equal spirit, and so ably did both parties ply their batons, that for a while the issue of the combat was extremely doubtful. At length, however, the fiddler could easily discover that his opponent’s vigour was much in the fagging order. Picking up renewed courage in consequence, my grand-uncle, the fiddler, plied the ghost with renovated vigour, and after a stout resistance, in the course of which both parties were seriously handled, the Ghost of Bogandoran thought it prudent to give up the night.
“At the same time, filled, no doubt, with great indignation at this signal defeat, it seems the ghost resolved to re-engage my grand-uncle on some other occasion, under more favourable circumstances. Not long after, as my grand-uncle was returning home quite unattended from another ball in the Braes of the country, he had just entered the hollow of Auldichoish, well known for its ‘eery’ properties, when lo! who presented himself to his view on the adjacent eminence but his old friend of Bogandoran, advancing as large as the gable of a house, putting himself in the most threatening and fighting attitudes?
“Looking on the very dangerous nature of the ground in which they were met, and feeling no anxiety for a second encounter with a combatant of his weight, in a situation so little desirable, the fiddler would have willingly deferred the settlement of their differences till a more convenient season. He, accordingly, assuming the most submissive aspect in the world, endeavoured to pass by his champion in peace, but in vain. Longing, no doubt, to retrieve the disgrace of his late discomfiture, the bogle instantly seized the fiddler, and attempted with all his might to pull the latter down the precipice, with the diabolical intention, it is supposed, of drowning him in the river Avon below. In this pious design the bogle was happily frustrated by the intervention of some trees which grew in the precipice, and to which my unhappy grand-uncle clung with the zeal of a drowning man. The enraged ghost finding it impossible to extricate him from those friendly trees, and resolving, at all events, to be revenged of him, he fell upon maltreating the fiddler with his hands and feet in the most inhuman manner.
“Such gross indignities my worthy grand-uncle was not accustomed to, and being incensed beyond all measure at the liberties taken by Bogandoran, he resolved again to try his mettle, whether life or death should be the consequence. Having no other weapon wherewith to defend himself but his biodag, which, considering the nature of his opponent’s constitution, he suspected much would be of little avail to him—I say, in the absence of any other weapon, he sheathed the biodag three times in the Ghost of Bogandoran’s belly. And what was the consequence? why, to the great astonishment of my courageous forefather, the ghost fell down cold-dead at his feet, and was never more seen or heard of.”
Thus it will be seen that in those chivalrous days the stout and energetic sons of Caledonia had courage and prowess enough to cope with those powerful warriors, however unequally matched, with spirit and even with success. In the present effeminate times, we hear of none that will even contend with those miserable scarecrows of the present day. Overcome, more by fear than by force, at the first encounter they throw themselves down, and, like the lamb beneath the fox, tamely submit to the most abusive treatment. Hence, encouraged by those servile submissions, it is almost incredible to what extent those invincible corps sometimes carry their audacity. We have heard of not a few of them, who having, in the first place, intruded their company on peaceable travellers on the public road, in the next place offered them the most provoking indignities,—one time piping their unearthly cries into the passenger’s ears, at another time tripping him up by the heels, and even committing indecencies which delicacy forbids us to repeat, while the fears and agitation manifested by the traveller constituted a subject of great merriment to the mischievous ghost.
CHAPTER III.
OF THE GHOST IN HIS INTERMEDIATE STATE—HIS SIMILITUDES AND HABITS.
A short time previous to the mortal’s death, and when just on the eve of dissolution, the ghost undergoes a striking revolution in his appearance and habits. Seized with the locked jaw, and all the other disabilities common to the dead, he then becomes the awful emblem of death in all its similitudes. Attired in a shroud and all the ensigns of the grave, the ghost nocturnally proceeds to the narrow house of his future residence, and there disappears. He is lighted on his way by a pale azure-coloured light, of the size of that emitted by a tallow candle, which is of a flickering unsteady nature, sometimes vivid, and sometimes faint, as the mortal inhales and respires his breath; and, in his course towards the grave, he will follow minutely the line of march destined to be followed by his earthly partner’s approaching funeral. His pace is slow, and his footsteps imperceptible even to a passenger; who, although he sees clearly all his trappings, cannot discern his mode of travelling. To the naked eye the ghost’s visage is not discernible, by reason of the face-cloth. There is a very simple process, however, which has been discovered for enabling a spectator to discern whose ghost he is, although we never heard of more than one person who had the hardihood to put the experiment in practice.
It is an admitted fact, in those countries, that a ghost may be recognised, in the appearance of his human partner, on his passing a spectator, by the latter’s reversing the cuff of his own coat, or any other part of his raiment, which puts an instant stop to the ghost’s career, and clearly exposes him to the recognition of the courageous experimenter.
A sage philosopher, who had long desired an opportunity of practising this bold experiment, found, “late one night,” when returning home from a market, a very convenient one. Observing a stout lusty ghost stalking very majestically along the public road, this bold adventurer hesitated not a moment. Clapping himself into a defensive attitude, he reversed his cuff—when, lo! his next-door neighbour’s wife was instantly confronted to his face—clad in death’s awful apparel—the death-candle lowing in her throat, and mouth full distended. Such an exhibition was too appalling to wish for a long interview; and, accordingly, Donald Doul, the adventurer, made a motion to be off, but in vain. The unhappy man, as if transformed into a stone, could no more move than Lot’s wife, and was obliged to stand confronted to his loving companion, both equally sparing of their talk, until the crowing of the cock in the morning. Finding himself then released from his uncomfortable stance, he was about to make the best of his way home, to communicate the result of his experiment, when the friendly wife’s ghost thus addressed him: “Donald Doul—Donald Doul—Donald Doul—hear me, and tremble. Great is the hindrance you have caused me this night,—a hindrance for which you should have been severely punished, but for the friendship which formerly subsisted between yourself and my partner. Dare not again to pry into the mysteries of the dead. The time will come when you’ll know those secrets.” To this poetical harangue Donald Doul made no other reply than a profound obeisance. It is possible, however, the ghost would have proposed a rejoinder, had not a chanticleer, in the adjacent hamlet, emitted his third clarion, at the magic sound of which the wife’s ghost fairly took to her heels, leaving Donald Doul to resume his course homewards without further advice. Satisfied of the interesting nature of the occurrence, and that his reputation for courage and veracity would suffer no diminution from the relation, Donald Doul made no secret of what happened. This clearly foretold what speedily took place, the dissolution of the neighbour’s wife, (who, by the way, was dangerously ill at the time,) to the great grief of her husband, and the credit of Donald Doul’s name.
A short time after the ghost, bearing the death-candle, has thus been seen, the house of the undertaker who is to make the mortal’s coffin will be nightly disturbed by the sounds of saws and knocking of hammers, no doubt proceeding from the ghost of the undertaker and his assistants preparing the coffin of the ghost; while invisible messengers will parade the country for necessaries for the ghost’s funeral, or foregoing. And a very imposing and interesting spectacle may be looked for.
The mortal resigns his breath, and is about to follow the course of the dead-candle to his new abode, when Taish na Tialedh, or the funeral foregoing, takes the road. This is not a paltry spectacle of one ghost, a sight so common in those countries, but a superb assemblage of them, all drest in their best attire, each reflecting lustre on the other. On this occasion, the ghost of every man who is destined to accompany the mortal’s funeral will attend, dressed in apparel of the same colour, and mounted on a horse of the same appearance, (if he is to have one,) as his mortal companion on the day of the corporeal interment. On this occasion, too, their characteristic austerity of manners is dispensed with. Mellowed, no doubt, by the generous qualities of the Usquebaugh, the jocund laugh, the jest, and repartee, go slapping round, responsive to some mournful dirge proceeding from the defunct’s immediate friends and relations.
In the motley group, the ghost of a father or brother is easily recognised by his well-known voice and Sabbath vestment. Nay, the spectator may even recognise himself, if his senses enable him to discriminate, joyous or sorry, as occasion suggests, mingling in the throng. In the middle of the procession the coffin is seen, containing, we presume, the dead ghost, circled by mourning relatives; and on the front, flanks, and rear of the burden, the company are likewise seen approaching and retiring, relieving each other by turns. At length, the noise of horses and tongues, horsemen and footmen, mingled indiscriminately together, closes the procession.
The following account of the foregoing of the funeral of an illustrious chief, who died some few score of years ago, (witnessed by a man whose veracity was a perfect proverb,) will not, we trust, be unacceptable:
“A smith, who had a large family to provide for, was often necessitated to occupy his smithy till rather a late hour. One night, in particular, as he was turning the key of his smithy door, his notice was attracted to the public road, which lay contiguous to the smithy, by a confusion of sounds, indicative of the approach of a great concourse of people. Immediately there appeared the advanced ranks of a procession, marching four men deep, in tolerable good order, unless occasionally some unaccountable circumstance occasioned the fall of a lusty fellow, as if he had been shot by a twenty-four pounder. Thunderstruck at the nature and number of the marvellous procession, the smith, honest man, reclined his back to the door, witnessing a continuation of the same procession for nearly an hour, without discovering any thing further of the character of those who composed it, than that they betokened a repletion of the Usquebaugh. At length, the appearance of the hearse and its awful ensigns, together with the succeeding line of coaches, developed the nature of the concern. It was then that the smith’s knees began to smite each other, and his hair to stand on an end. The recent demise of this venerable chieftain confirmed his conviction of its being a Taish, and a very formidable one too. Not choosing to see the rear, he directed his face homewards, whither he fled with the swiftness of younger years, and was not backward in favouring his numerous acquaintances with a full and particular account of the whole scene. This induced many honest people to assume the smithy door as their stance of observation on the day of the funeral, which took place a few days after; and, to his honour be it told, every circumstance detailed by the smith in his relation accurately happened, even to the decanting of two dogs, and this established the smith’s veracity in all time thereafter.”
Akin to this are all the relations of those good people whose evil destiny it has been to fall in with those ghostly processions, some of whom having inadvertently involved themselves into the crowd, were repulsed in every attempt to extricate themselves, until carried along, nobody knows how far, by the tumultuous rabble, who seemed to enjoy themselves vastly at the standing hair, protruding eyes, and awry visage of the unconscious intruder.
In concluding this part of our subject, it is hardly necessary to add, that in two or three days after the ghostly procession, the human or corporeal procession will succeed it, following most minutely and accurately every course, winding, and turn taken by the foregoing, while the dress, conversation, and every other incident attending the company will be precisely the same.
CHAPTER IV.
OF THE GHOST IN HIS POST-EXISTENT STATE.
It might, no doubt, be readily supposed by the ingenious reader, that the mortal’s decease should be the term of dissolution assigned to the copartnery connection subsisting between the mortal and his ghost, as it generally terminates every other engagement into which the people of this world enter. The event, however, only serves to blend their interests still more strictly together. Whatever doubt may exist as to the ghost’s attention to his partner’s worldly interests in his lifetime, his solicitude for his spiritual interest, after the mortal’s death, is universally acknowledged. He then becomes the sole means of remedying past errors, and obtaining redress for past injuries. To enable one fully to appreciate a ghost’s utility in the “land of the leal,” he must acquaint himself with the nature of the life which the defunct led, whether regular in his habits and moral in his life, or otherwise, and the particular situation of his affairs at death. If, for instance, a man falls suddenly, like a tree in a storm, whatever may be the situation or circumstances in which he happens to drop, so he must lie. In this respect, then, the peculiar advantage of the Highlander over his Lowland neighbour becomes perfectly apparent. Through the medium of a faithful ghost and a confidential friend, transactions, as intricate and ravelled as those of the Laird of Coul, can be easily simplified and assorted.
No man should, therefore, be surprised, if the ghost of some departed friend should take an opportunity of saluting him, and for his own sake he should also lose no time in enabling the awful emissary to declare the purpose of his mission; whoever will defer doing so only increases his own misery, and it is a task, however uncomfortable, that is sacredly due to departed friendship; for how many, by yielding to the influence of cowardly fear, have exposed themselves and their household to those nocturnal rackets sometimes raised by those disappointed ambassadors, whereas a little resolution would not only have averted it, but have also greatly conduced to the repose and quietude of an old and esteemed acquaintance. The following statement of a circumstance which, we are told, happened in Strathspey not a great many years ago, will best enforce this counsel:
“Not many years ago there lived in Kincardine of Strathspey a poor man, who contracted a severe and sudden illness, which, to the great grief of his family, terminated in his death. From the suddenness of the honest man’s call, he had not time to settle his affairs, and this circumstance, it seems, as might have been supposed, caused him no small disquietude in the eternal world. He wished, in particular, to have had an axe and a whisky barrel, which he had borrowed of a friend, restored to him; for iron, you must know, in such cases, is very bad. In order, therefore, to have this matter adjusted, the dead man commissioned his ghost to wait on a particular friend to disclose to him the circumstance, not doubting in the least but the friend would have bestowed his best attention on the subject. The faithful ghost lost no time in proceeding to get the object of his mission accomplished, which, however, turned out rather a difficult undertaking, for it was no easy matter for the ghost to procure a conference with the friend on the business. One glimpse of the former never failed to communicate to the latter the feet of a roe, nor could all his dexterity bring the matter to a bearing. At length, exasperated by a long course of night watching and useless travelling, the wily commissioner had recourse to an expedient which ultimately effected his purpose. As soon as the sun went down every evening, the ghost opened a cannonade of bricks and stones upon the unhappy friend and the inmates of his house, which did not terminate till cock-crowing in the morning; and so expert an archer was this pawky ghost, that he scarcely ever missed an aim, while every stroke would kill a bullock. Smarting under the effect of this unseasonable chastisement, the friend and his family raised the most outrageous clamour at their unaccountable misfortune, which induced some of their neighbours nightly to assemble in considerable bodies to protect them from this nocturnal warfare. But the wily ghost, far from relaxing his operations on that account, only plied them with additional vigour, sparing neither sex nor age in his sweeping career. All sorts of missiles announced themselves, rebounding on the shoulders of the protectors as well as the protected, the pithy weight of which, and the unaccountable manner in which they were flung, convinced the sufferers they were not flung by mortal hand. All the acquaintances of the friend, therefore, urged on him to challenge the invisible demon who thus savagely persecuted him at the hour of midnight, in order to afford the latter an opportunity of explaining his business, and the reason of his cruel and unchristian conduct. But this advice the friend of the deceased was disposed to consider a dernier resort, and one that required some cool consideration. At length, rendered quite desperate by a series of unparalleled persecutions, which rendered him as thin in body as a silver sixpence, the goodman came to a final determination to call the ghost to account the very first opportunity, for his mean and pusillanimous attacks on himself and poor family. Accordingly, one night, on receiving a tart pill on the cheek, which gave him an ear-ache, and which wonderfully improved his courage, the goodman marched forth, with a mixture of rage and fear, demanding of the unfeeling ghost, in a voice resembling the falling notes of the gamut, ‘Wha-a-t i-i-s you-r bus-n-ess wi’ m-my ho-use a-and fa-fa-fa-mi-ly?’ The ghost instantly appeared happy to answer the question; but, ere he could do so, it was necessary to go through a ceremony, which is no less curious than it is disagreeable to the feelings of the parties concerned. This ceremony consists in the mortal’s embracing the ghost, and raising his feet from the ground, so as to allow the wind to pass between the soles of his feet and the ground, which enables the tongue-tied ghost to speak a volume. What was then to be done in this particular case? Encouraged by the eloquent cheers and arguments held forth to him, through the crevices of his house, by his anxious family, he made several attempts to encircle the awful emissary in his arms, which, by a sort of mechanical motion, receded from the embrace; and it was not without great difficulty he could persuade himself to give a friendly embrace to this mischievous ghost; this, however, he did at last,—seizing him as he would a bush of thorns. The ghost’s long-locked jaws now began to speak in so sepulchral a tone as to palsy all who heard it. The friend of the deceased promised strict attention to all the ghost’s injunctions, upon which he evanished in a flame of fire, leaving the unhappy man scarce able to totter to his chair. A minute compliance with all his instructions rendered a second visit from the ghost unnecessary—and this was no small matter of comfort to the friend.”
This frigid display of a Highlandman’s courage will appear very contemptible when compared to the undaunted resolution of the female alluded to in the following story:
“About forty or fifty years ago, a native of Strathdown, whose manner of living (like that of other folks) did not qualify him for a sudden death, was unfortunately drowned in the following manner: While in the act of cutting down a tree, in a steep precipice pending over the river Avon, he slipped his footing—fell headlong into the abyss below, and rose no more. His lamentable fate was speedily discovered, his body interred, and his affairs arranged in the best possible order. Time, the parent of oblivion, soon rendered his name extinct among the living, and he was no longer heard of; when, on a certain day, in the height of it, the deceased appeared in his human likeness at the window of a female friend. On the woman’s exhibiting some surprise and terror at his appearance, the drowned man called to her to fear nothing, but to come forth and speak with him,—for it seems he had been enabled to speak without the ‘dead-lift.’ The honest woman suspecting, no doubt, that, if she did not go out to him, he would make the best of his way to her, obeyed his summons; and, in the course of a long convoy she gave him, he divulged to her several acts of misconduct he had been guilty of towards an old master and some others, which disturbed much his repose. Anxious, no doubt, to get rid of his company, she promised to exert the best of her endeavours to atone for his misconduct, on condition he would leave her, and never again renew his visit,—a promise which she faithfully performed, and the dead friend gave her no farther trouble.”
But the settlement of unassorted affairs, after death, is not the only thing in which the ghost is extremely useful. As an ambassador ever ready to discharge any piece of useful service—such as appeasing the unavailing grief of lamenting relatives—he is ever ready and expert, and the delicate manner in which the ghost sometimes executes this commission indicates that he is far more friendly and conciliatory in his behaviour when dead than he was when alive. Sometimes, but rarely, he leaves his abode to benefit an old acquaintance or friend of his partner; but it will no doubt be done at the instigation of the devoted latter. We present the particulars of a favour of this sort conferred on an inhabitant of Strathspey, no doubt a long time ago, which deserved a better return than what the ghost at first met with.
“Engaged one night in the arrangement of his farming affairs, a certain farmer, living in the parish of Abernethy, was a good deal surprised at seeing an old acquaintance, who had a considerable time previously departed this life, entering quite coolly at his dwelling-house door. Instead of following his old acquaintance into his house, to receive an explanation from himself of the marvellous circumstance, his curiosity led him into the church-yard where his friend was buried, and which was near by, to see if he had actually risen from the dead. On examination, he not only found the grave, but also the coffin wide open, which left no doubt on his mind of the reality of the vision which he thought had deluded his sight. Making the sign of the cross on the grave, he returned to his house, not caring whether he found his friend before him or not. He was not, however, to be seen; but, in the course of a short time, he returned, and upbraided the farmer for his improper interference with his grave, explaining to him the cause of his resurrection. It appeared that a scabbed stirk, which had a greedy custom of prowling about the doors, seeking what he might devour, thief-like entering the dwelling-house in the absence of the family, and, finding no better subject of entertainment, attacked the straw in the cradle which stood by the fireside, and in which his only child was sleeping at the time. The tugging of the stirk at the straw would have inevitably overturned the cradle and the child into the fire but for the generous interposition of the ghost. The farmer expressed his most grateful acknowledgments for so signal an instance of his kindness; and immediately retraced his steps to the grave, on which he made a counter-sign to that which he formerly made, and the good-hearted ghost obtained admission into his dreary abode.”
But these are not all the ghost’s useful qualities. He possesses another very important one in this unchristian and uncharitable age, in which the repositories of the dead are exposed to the nocturnal spoliation of the ruthless resurrectionist. It is vain for the church-sexton to plant steel-traps and spring-guns in the field of his labours,—the wily depredator will contrive to elude them all when the vigilant watchman is wanted to direct them. To show the vigilance of this agent’s attention to his own interest, and that of his friends, on such occasions, take the following narration:—
“There was at one time a woman, who lived in Camp-del-more of Strathavon, whose cattle were seized with a murrain, or some such fell disease, which ravaged the neighbourhood at the time, carrying off great numbers of them daily. All the forlorn fires and hallowed waters failed of their customary effects; and she was at length told by the wise people whom she consulted on the occasion, that it was evidently the effect of some infernal agency, the power of which could not be destroyed by any other means than the never-failing specific—the juice of a dead head from the church-yard,—a nostrum certainly very difficult to be procured, considering the head must needs be abstracted from a grave in the hour of midnight. Being, however, a woman of a stout heart and strong faith, native feelings of delicacy towards the blessed sanctuary of the dead had more weight in restraining her for some time from resorting to this desperate remedy than those of fear. At length, seeing that her bestial stock would soon be completely annihilated by the destructive career of the disease, the wife of Camp-del-more resolved to put the experiment in practice, whatever the result might be. Accordingly, having, with considerable difficulty, engaged a neighbouring woman to be her companion in this hazardous expedition, they set out, about midnight, for the parish church-yard, distant about a mile and a half from her residence, to execute her determination. On arriving at the church-yard, her companion, whose courage was not so notable, appalled by the gloomy prospect before her, refused to enter among the habitations of the dead. She, however, agreed to remain at the gate till her friend’s business was accomplished. This circumstance, however, did not stagger our heroine’s resolution. She, with the greatest coolness and intrepidity, proceeded towards what she supposed an old grave,—took down her spade, and commenced her operations. After a good deal of toil she arrived at the object of her labour. Raising the first head, or rather skull, that came in her way, she was about to make it her own property, when, lo! a hollow, wild, sepulchral voice exclaimed, ‘That is my head—let it alone!’ Not wishing to dispute the claimant’s title to this head, and supposing she could be otherwise provided, she very good-naturedly returned it, and took up another. ‘That is my father’s head,’ bellowed the same voice. Wishing, if possible, to avoid disputes, the wife of Camp-del-more took up another head, when the same voice instantly started a claim to it as his grand-father’s head. ‘Well,’ replied the wife, nettled at her disappointments, ‘although it were your grand-mother’s head, you shan’t get it till I am done with it.’—‘What do you say, you limmer?’ says the ghost, starting up in his awry habiliments; ‘What do you say, you limmer?’ repeated he in a great rage. ‘By the great oath, you had better leave my grand-father’s head.’ Upon matters coming this length, the wily wife of Camp-del-more thought it proper to assume a more conciliatory aspect. Telling the claimant the whole particulars of the predicament in which she was placed by the foresaid calamity, she promised faithfully, that, if his Honour would only allow her to carry off his grand-father’s skull, or head, in a peaceable manner, she would restore it again when done with it. Here, after some communing, they came to an understanding, and she was allowed to take the head along with her, on condition she should restore it before cock-crowing, under the heaviest penalties.
“On coming out of the church-yard, and looking for her companion, she had the mortification to find her ‘without a mouthful of breath in her body;’ for, on hearing the dispute between her friend and the guardian of the grave, and suspecting much that she was likely to share the unpleasant punishments with which he threatened her friend, at the bare recital of them she fell down in a faint, from which it was no easy matter to recover her. This proved no small inconvenience to Camp-del-more’s wife, as there were not above two hours to elapse ere she had to return the head in terms of her agreement. Taking her friend upon her back, she carried her up a steep acclivity to the nearest adjoining house, where she left her for the night; then repaired home with the utmost speed—made dead bree of the dead head, and, ere the appointed time had expired, she restored the head to its guardian, and placed the grave in its former condition. It is needless to add, that, as a reward for her exemplary courage, the ‘bree’ had its desired effect—the cattle speedily recovered—and, so long as she retained any of it, all sorts of diseases were of short duration.”
SAFEGUARDS FROM GHOSTS.
Having now briefly described the leading features of a ghost’s character in those countries, we shall close our account of him by annexing a few of those safeguards which protect us from those wanton encounters and impertinent interferences which we have related, and which must be far from being palatable to the more effeminate inhabitants of the Highland mountains at the present day.
One simple plan of obtaining perfect security from supernatural agents of any kind is, (whenever we apprehend the approach or presence of a ghost,) to repeat certain words, which can be taught by any wise patriarch or matron, the powerful charm of which instantly repercusses the ghost back to his own proper abode, and, for the time, defeats all his machinations. Note—If in the house, the words must be repeated three times behind the door. A ghost then can neither enter at the door, window, nor any other crevice of the house. The operation of the words is like that of an infeftment, which, taken on one part of the property, affects the whole. Were it not for this grand discovery, vain would be the attempt of any man to bar out a ghost as he might do a mortal. A ghost can enter in at the key-hole—nay, even through the wall of the house, if there is no other caveat to arrest him in his career.
Another safeguard consists in forming a piece of the rowan tree into the shape of a cross with a red thread. This cross you will insert between the lining and cloth of your garment, and, so long as it lasts, neither ghost nor witch shall ever interfere with you.
PART II.
Fairies.
There are fairies, and brownies, and shades Amazonian,
Of harper, and sharper, and old Cameronian;
Some small as pigmies, some tall as a steeple:
The spirits are all gone as mad as the people.
Hogg.
CHAPTER I.
ORIGIN AND GENEALOGY OF THE FAIRIES.
Though the ghost is confessedly entitled to no small degree of consideration from his intimate connection with our own species, no one will pretend to deny that the fairy is a character whose greatness of descent renders him equally interesting and respectable. The genealogy of the ghost can no doubt be traced back to the earliest ages of the world, and it is pretty certain that he has been amongst the first of its inhabitants; still, on the score of antiquity, he cannot pretend to compete with the fairy, who, it seems, existed long before the world itself. The origin and descent of the fairies, which had so long proved such knotty subjects of controversy in other quarters of the kingdom, are points which have been finally settled and disposed of in these countries. No doubt now remains, in the minds of those who have bestowed any attention on the important subject, of there being those unhappy angels whose diabolical deeds produced their expulsion from Paradise. In support of this rational theory, the wise men of the day never fail to quote the highest authority. Scripture, they say, tells us those angels were cast down; and although, indeed, it does not mention to what place, sad experience proves the fact, that the Highland mountains received an ample share of them. Here, wandering up and down, like the hordes of Tartary, they pitch their camp where spoil is most plentiful; and taking advantage of the obstinate incredulity of some of their human neighbours, contrive to make themselves perfectly comfortable at the latter’s expense. To dispel any doubt that may remain on the mind of the reader as to the soundness of this doctrine, we present him with the following particulars:
“Not long since, as a pious clergyman was returning home, after administering spiritual consolation to a dying member of his flock, it was late of the night, and he had to pass through a good deal of uncanny ground. He was, however, a good and conscientious minister of the gospel, and feared not all the spirits in the country. On his reaching the end of a lake which stretched alongst the road-side for some distance, he was a good deal surprised to have his attention arrested by the most melodious strains of music. Overcome by pleasure and curiosity, the minister coolly sat down to listen to the harmonious sounds, and try what new discoveries he could make with regard to their nature and source. He had not sitten many minutes when he could distinguish the approach of the music, and also observe a light in the direction from whence it proceeded, gliding across the lake towards him. Instead of taking to his heels, as any faithless wight would have done, the pastor, fearless, determined to await the issue of the phenomenon. As the light and music drew near, the clergyman could at length distinguish an object resembling a human being walking on the surface of the water, attended by a group of diminutive musicians, some of them bearing lights, and others of them instruments of music, on which they continued to perform those melodious strains which first attracted his attention. The leader of the band dismissed his attendants, landed on the beach, and afforded the minister the amplest opportunities of examining his appearance. He was a little primitive-looking grey-headed man, clad in the most grotesque habit he ever witnessed, and such as led the venerable minister all at once to suspect his real character. He walked up to the minister, whom he saluted with great grace, offering an apology for his intrusion. The pastor returned his compliments, and, without farther explanation, invited the mysterious stranger to sit down by his side. The invitation was complied with, upon which the minister proposed the following question: ‘Who art thou, stranger, and from whence?’ To this question the fairy, with downcast eye, replied, that he was one of those sometimes called ‘Doane Shee, or men of peace, or good men, though the reverse of this title was a more fit appellation for them. Originally angelic in his nature and attributes, and once a sharer of the indescribable joys of the regions of light, he was seduced by Satan to join him in his mad conspiracies; and as a punishment for his transgression, he was cast down from those regions of bliss, and was now doomed, along with millions of fellow-sufferers, to wander through seas and mountains, until the coming of the great day; what their fate would be then they could not divine, but they apprehended the worst. And,’ continued he, turning to the minister, with great anxiety, ‘the object of my present intrusion on you is to learn your opinion, as an eminent divine, as to our final condition on that dreadful day.’ Here the venerable pastor entered upon a long conversation with the fairy, (the particulars of which we shall be excused for omitting,) touching the principles of faith and repentance. Receiving rather unsatisfactory answers to his questions, the minister desired the ‘Sheech’ to repeat after him the Paternoster; in attempting to do which, it was not a little remarkable that he could not repeat the word ‘art,’ but ‘wert,’ in heaven. Inferring from every circumstance that their fate was extremely precarious, the minister resolved not to puff the fairies up with presumptuous and perhaps groundless expectations. Accordingly, addressing himself to the unhappy fairy, who was all anxiety to know the nature of his sentiments, the reverend gentleman told him that he could not take it upon him to give them any hopes of pardon, as their crime was of so deep a hue as scarcely to admit of it. On this the unhappy fairy uttered a shriek of despair, plunged headlong into the loch, and the minister resumed his course to his home.”
CHAPTER II.
SIMILITUDE OF THE FAIRY.
Of all the different species of supernatural tribes which inhabit those countries, none of them could ever vie with the fairy community for personal elegance. Indeed, this seems to be the only remaining vestige they possess of their primitive character. Though generally low in stature, they are exceedingly well proportioned, and prepossessing in their persons. The females, in particular, are said to be the most enchanting beings in the world, and far beyond what the liveliest fancy can paint. Eyes sparkling as the brightest of the stars, or the polished gem of Cairngorm,—cheeks in which the whiteness of the snow and red of the reddan are blended with the softness of the Cannoch down,—lips like the coral, and teeth like the ivory,—a redundant luxuriance of auburn hair hanging down the shoulders in lovely ringlets, and a gainly simplicity of dress, always of the colour of green, are prominent features in the description of a Highland fairy nymph.
But while we agree in some measure with our fellow historians who have described the fairy race as they exist in other quarters of the country, in so far as regards their personal beauty, we widely differ from those historians as to the splendour of their dress as exhibited in the character of the Highland fairies. Instead of the gorgeous habiliments of “white and gold dropped with diamonds, and coats of the threads of gold,” which we are told are worn by those more luxurious and refined fairies living within the sphere of splendour and fashion in the Lowlands of Scotland; the Highland fairies, more thrifty and less voluptuous, clothe themselves in plain worsted green, not woven by the “shuttle of Iris,” but by the greasy shuttle of some Highland weaver. This description, let it be understood, however, applies only to the portion of them inhabiting terra firma; for the dress of those whose lot it was to fall in the deep is of a very different nature, consisting entirely of seal-skins, and such other marine apparel as is most suitable and appropriate to their element.
The following story will throw some light upon the manners and habits of this portion of the fairy tribes.
There was once upon a time a man who lived on the northern coasts, not far from “Taigh Jan Crot Callow,”[B] and he gained his livelihood by catching and killing fish, of all sizes and denominations. He had a particular liking to the killing of those wonderful beasts, half dog half fish, called “Roane,” or Seals, no doubt because he got a long price for their skins, which are not less curious than they are valuable. The truth is, that most of these animals are neither dogs nor cods, but downright fairies, as this narration will show; and, indeed, it is easy for any man to convince himself of the fact by a simple examination of his tobacco-spluichdan,—for the dead skins of those beings are never the same for four-and-twenty hours together. Sometimes the “spluichdan” will erect its bristles almost perpendicularly, while, at other times, it reclines them even down; one time it resembles a bristly sow, at another time a sleekit cat; and what dead skin, except itself, could perform such cantrips? Now, it happened one day, as this notable fisher had returned from the prosecution of his calling, that he was called upon by a man who seemed a great stranger, and who said he had been dispatched for him by a person who wished to contract for a quantity of seal-skins, and that it was necessary for the fisher to accompany him (the stranger) immediately to see the person who wished to contract for the skins, as it was necessary that he should be served that evening. Happy in the prospect of making a good bargain, and never suspecting any duplicity in the stranger, he instantly complied. They both mounted a steed belonging to the stranger, and took the road with such velocity that, although the direction of the wind was towards their back, yet the fleetness of their movement made it appear as if it had been in their faces. On reaching a stupendous precipice which overhung the sea, his guide told him they had now reached the point of their destination. “Where is the person you spoke of?” inquired the astonished seal-killer. “You shall see that presently,” replied the guide. With that they immediately alighted, and, without allowing the seal-killer much time to indulge the frightful suspicions that began to pervade his mind, the stranger seized him with irresistible force, and plunged headlong with the seal-killer into the sea. After sinking down—down—nobody knows how far, they at length reached a door, which, being open, led them into a range of apartments, filled with inhabitants—not people, but seals, who could nevertheless speak and feel like human folk; and how much was the seal-killer surprised to find that he himself had been unconsciously transformed into the like image! If it were not so, he would probably have died, from the want of breath. The nature of the poor fisher’s thoughts may be more easily conceived than described. Looking on the nature of the quarters into which he was landed, all hopes of escape from them appeared wholly chimerical, whilst the degree of comfort and length of life which the barren scene promised him were far from being flattering. The “Roane,” who all seemed in very low spirits, appeared to feel for him, and endeavoured to soothe the distress which he evinced, by the amplest assurances of personal safety. Involved in sad meditation on his evil fate, he was quickly roused from his stupor, by his guide’s producing a huge gully or joctaleg, the object of which he supposed was to put an end to all his earthly cares. Forlorn as was his situation, however, he did not wish to be killed; and, apprehending instant destruction, he fell down, and earnestly implored for mercy. The poor generous animals did not mean him any harm, however much his former conduct deserved it; and he was accordingly desired to pacify himself, and cease his cries. “Did you ever see that knife before?” says the stranger to the fisher. The latter instantly recognising his own knife, which he had that day stuck into a seal, and with which it made its escape, acknowledged it was formerly his own, for what would be the use of denying it? “Well!” rejoins the guide, “the apparent seal, which made away with it, is my father, who lies dangerously ill ever since, and no means could stay his fleeting breath, without your aid. I have been obliged to resort to the artifice I have practised to bring you hither, and I trust that my filial duty to my father will readily operate my excuse.” Having said this, he led into another apartment the trembling seal-killer, who expected every minute a return of his own favour to the father; and here he found the identical seal, with which he had the encounter in the morning, suffering most grievously from a tremendous cut in its hind-quarter. The seal-killer was then desired, with his hand, to cicatrize the wound; upon doing which, it immediately healed, and the seal arose from its bed in perfect health. Upon this, the scene changed from mourning to rejoicing,—all was mirth and glee. Very different, however, were the feelings of the unfortunate seal-catcher, expecting, no doubt, to be a seal for the remainder of his life, until his late guide accosted him as follows: “Now, sir, you are at liberty to return to your wife and family, to whom I am about to conduct you; but it is on this express condition, to which you must bind yourself by a solemn oath, viz., that you shall never maim or kill a seal in all your lifetime hereafter.” To this condition, hard as it was, he joyfully acceded; and the oath being administered in all due form, he bade his new acquaintance most heartily and sincerely a long farewell. Taking hold of his guide, they issued from the place, and swam up—up—till they regained the surface of the sea; and, landing at the said stupendous pinnacle, they found their former riding steed ready for a second canter. The guide breathed upon the fisher, and they became like men. They mounted their horse; and fleet as was their course towards the precipice or pinnacle, their return from it was doubly swift; and the honest seal-killer was laid down at his own door-cheek, where his guide made him such a present as would have almost reconciled him to another similar expedition, and such as rendered his loss of profession, in so far as regarded the seals, a far less intolerable hardship than he had at first contemplated it.
CHAPTER III.
OF THE FAIRIES AS A COMMUNITY—THEIR POLITICAL PRINCIPLES AND INGENIOUS HABITS.
From the description the reader may have seen of the fairy community in general, as drawn in the works of the eminent writers of the day, he may have been led to form very erroneous estimates not only of the dress of the Highland fairies, but also of their political economy and government.
There are few who have not heard of the illustrious and divine beauty of the Queen of the Fairies, and the splendid and dazzling courts with which her majesty is surrounded on all occasions of intercourse with the inhabitants of this world. It appears, however, from all that the compiler can learn, that the empire of Queen Mab, like that of the renowned Cæsar, never was extended to the northern side of the Grampians, for she is entirely unknown in those countries. Indeed, it is believed that the Highland fairies acknowledge no distinctions of this sort. As there were originally none such amongst them in Paradise, so they are not disposed to create any on earth,—and a more complete republic never was.
It is true, Satan, no doubt, exercises a sort of impotent chieftainship over them as his once rebellious confederates,—but, it is believed, his laws and his edicts are as much despised by them as those of the Great Mogul. In spite of all his power and policy, like the Israelites of old, each does what is right in his own eyes; and, unless on a Halloweven, or such occasion of state, they may submit to a pageant review more from motives of vanity than of loyalty, Auld Nick’s ancient sovereignty over the fairy community in this land of freedom has fallen into desuetude.
The fairies are a very ingenious people. As may be expected from the nature of their origin and descent, they are possessed of very superior intellectual powers, which they know well enough how to apply to useful purposes. Nor are they so vain of their abilities as to scorn to direct them to the prosecution of those more ignoble employments, on which the politer part of mankind commonly look down with contempt. Whether this condescension, on the part of the fairy, be more the result of choice or necessity, it is hard for us to determine; but certain it is, that few communities can boast of a more numerous or more proficient body of artisans. We are told, indeed, by some of those well acquainted with their manners, that every individual fairy combines all the necessary arts in his own person—that he is his own weaver, his own tailor, and his own shoemaker. Whether this is truly the case public opinion is rather divided; but all our informants concur in this conclusion—that by far the greater number of them understand well enough those several callings; and the expertness they display in handling the shuttle, the needle, and the awl, evidently demonstrate their practical knowledge of these implements. In support of this conclusion, we have the authority of a decent old man, whose veracity, on subjects of this description, has never been questioned in the district in which he lived, who favoured the compiler with the following narration:
“My great-grandfather, (peace to his manes!) who was by profession a weaver, and, by the bye, a very honest man, though I should not say it, was waked one night from his midnight sleep by a tremendous noise. On looking ‘out over’ the bed, to see whence it proceeded, he was not a little astonished to find the house full of operative fairies, who, with the greatest familiarity, had made free with his manufacturing implements. Having provided themselves with a large sack of wool,—from whence it came they best knew,—they were actively employed in converting it into cloth. While one teethed it, another carded it; while another span it, another wove it; while another dyed it, another pressed it; while the united bustle of their several operations, joined to the exclamations uttered by each expressive of his avocation, created a clamour truly intolerable to the gudeman of the house, with whom they used so unacceptable a freedom. So diligent were they, that long ere day they decamped with a web of green cloth, consisting of fifty ells and more, without even thanking my venerable grandfather for the use of his machinery.”
Another narrative, with which we were favoured, related the activity of a fairy shoemaker, who sewed a pair of shoes for a “mountain shepherd” during the time the latter mealed a bicker of pottage for them. And another narrative related the expertness of a fairy barber, who shaved an acquaintance so effectually with no sharper a razor than the palm of his hand, that he never afterwards required to undergo the same operation. These, and a number of equally creditable stories, confirm their transcendent superiority as artisans over any other class of people in Christendom.
Nor in the more honourable and learned professions are they less dexterous. As architects they stand quite unrivalled. To prove their excellence in this art we have only to consider the durability of their habitations. Some of these, it is said, have outlived the ravages of time and vicissitudes of weather for some thousand years, without sustaining any other injury than the suffocation of the smoke-vents—defects which could no doubt be repaired with little trouble. But as the relics of former ages receive additional interest from their rude and ruinous appearance, so must these monuments of fairy genius excite in the breasts of the community the most profound sentiments of respect and veneration.
Nor are these the only monuments remaining calculated to perpetuate their excellence as architects and engineers,—there are others of too lasting and extraordinary a character to escape the notice of the traditional historian. We allude to those stupendous superstructures built by the fairies under the auspices of that distinguished arch-architect Mr. Michael Scott, which sufficiently demonstrate the skill of the designer and the ability of the workmen. As the history of this celebrated character (rendered not the less interesting by the notices of him written by the Minstrel of Minstrels) is not yet quite complete, we shall make no apology for submitting to the reader the following anecdotes of his life, which we have collected in the course of our peregrinations.
MICHAEL SCOTT.
In the early part of Michael Scott’s life he was in the habit, as is not yet uncommon with northern tradesmen, of emigrating annually to the Scottish metropolis, for the purpose of being employed in his capacity of mason. One time, as himself and two companions were journeying to the place of their destination for a similar object, they had occasion to pass over a high hill, the name of which is not mentioned, but supposed to be one of the Grampians, and being fatigued with climbing, they sat down to rest themselves. They had no sooner done so than they were warned to take to their heels by the hissing of a large serpent, which they observed revolving itself towards them with great velocity. Terrified at the sight, Michael’s two companions fled, while he, on the contrary, resolved to encounter the serpent. The appalling monster approached Michael Scott with distended mouth and forked tongue; and, throwing itself into a coil at his feet, was raising its head to inflict a mortal sting, when Michael, with one stroke of his stick, severed its body into three pieces. Having rejoined his affrighted comrades, they resumed their journey; and, on arriving at the next public-house, it being late, and the travellers being weary, they took up their quarters at it for the night. In the course of the night’s conversation, recurrence was naturally had to Michael’s recent exploit with the serpent, when the landlady of the house, who was remarkable for her “arts,” happened to be present. Her curiosity appeared much excited by the conversation; and, after making some inquiries regarding the colour of the serpent, which she was told was white, she offered any of them, that would procure her the middle piece, such a tempting reward, as induced one of the party instantly to go for it. The distance was not very great; and, on reaching the spot, he found the middle and tail piece in the place where Michael left them; but the head piece was gone, it is supposed, to a contiguous stream, to which the serpent is said always to resort, after an encounter with the human race, and, on immersing itself into the water, “like polypus asunder cut,” it again regenerates and recovers. On the other hand, it is a circumstance deserving the attention of the medical world, that should an individual, unfortunate enough to be bitten by this galling enemy of mankind, reach the water before the serpent, his recovery from the effects of the calamity is equally indubitable.
The landlady, on receiving the piece, which still vibrated with life, seemed highly gratified at her acquisition; and, over and above the promised reward, regaled her lodgers very plentifully with the choicest dainties in her house. Fired with curiosity to know the purpose for which the serpent was intended, the wily Michael Scott was immediately seized with a severe fit of indisposition,—an excruciating colic, the pains of which could only be alleviated by continual exposure to the fire, the warmth of which, he affirmed, was in the highest degree beneficial to him.
Never suspecting Michael Scott’s hypocrisy, and naturally supposing that a person so severely indisposed should feel very little curiosity about the contents of any cooking utensils which might lie around the fire, the landlady consented to his desire of being allowed to recline all night along the fireside. As soon as the other inmates of the house were retired to bed, the landlady resorted to her darling occupation; and, in this feigned state of indisposition, Michael had a favourable opportunity of watching most scrupulously all her actions, through the key-hole of a door leading to the next apartment where she was. He could see the rites and ceremonies with which the serpent was put into an oven, along with many mysterious ingredients. After which, the unsuspicious landlady placed it by the fireside, where lay our distressed traveller, to stove till the morning.
Once or twice, in the course of the night, the “wife of the change-house,” under pretence of inquiring for her sick lodger, and administering to him some renovating cordials, the beneficial effects of which he gratefully acknowledged, took occasion to dip her finger in her saucepan, upon which the cock, perched on his roost, crowed aloud. All Michael’s sickness could not prevent him from considering very inquisitively the landlady’s cantrips, and particularly the influence of the sauce upon the crowing of the cock. Nor could he dissipate some inward desires he felt to follow her example. At the same time that he suspected that Satan had a hand in the pye, yet he liked very much to be at the bottom of the concern; and thus his reason and his curiosity clashed against each other for the space of several hours. At length, passion, as is too often the case, became the conqueror. Michael, too, dipt his finger in the sauce, and applied it to the tip of his tongue, and immediately the cock perched on the spardan announced the circumstance in a mournful clarion. Instantly his mind received a new light to which he was formerly a stranger, and the astonished dupe of a landlady now found it her interest to admit her sagacious lodger into a knowledge of the remainder of her secrets.
Endowed with the knowledge of “good and evil,” and all the “second sights” that can be acquired, Michael left his lodgings in the morning, with the philosopher’s stone in his pocket. By daily perfecting his supernatural attainments, by new series of discoveries, he was more than a match for Satan himself. Having seduced some thousands of Satan’s best workmen into his employment, he trained them up so successfully to the architective business, and inspired them with such industrious habits, that he was more than sufficient for the architectural work of the empire. To establish this assertion, we need only refer to some remains of his workmanship still existing north of the Grampians, some of them stupendous bridges built by him in one short night, with no other visible agents than two or three workmen.
As the following anecdote is so applicable to our purpose, we shall submit it to the reader as a specimen of the expertness of Mr. Scott and his agents.
On one occasion, work was getting scarce, as might have been naturally expected, and his workmen, as they were wont, flocked to his doors, perpetually exclaiming, Work! work! work! Continually annoyed by their incessant entreaties, he called out to them in derision to go and make a dry road from Fortrose to Arderseir over the Moray Firth. Immediately their cry ceased, and as Mr. Scott supposed it wholly impracticable for them to execute his order, he retired to rest, laughing most heartily at the chimerical sort of employment he had given to his industrious workmen. Early in the morning, however, he got up and took a walk down at the break of day to the shore, to divert himself at the fruitless labours of his zealous workmen. But on reaching the spot, what was his astonishment to find the formidable piece of work allotted to them only a few hours before almost quite finished. Seeing the great damage the commercial class of the community would sustain from the operation, he ordered them to demolish the most part of their work; leaving, however, the point of Fortrose to show the traveller to this day the wonderful exploit of Michael Scott’s fairies.
On being thus again thrown out of employment, their former clamour was resumed, nor could Michael Scott, with all his sagacity, devise a plan to keep them in innocent employment. He at length discovered one. “Go,” says he, “and manufacture me ropes that will carry me to the back of the moon, of those materials, miller’s-sudds and sea-sand.” Michael Scott here obtained rest from his active operators; for, when other work failed them, he always dispatched them to their rope-manufactory. “But,” says our relator, “though these agents could never make proper ropes of those materials, their efforts to that effect are far from being contemptible,—for some of their ropes are seen by the seaside till this blessed day.”
We shall close our notice of Michael Scott by reciting one anecdote of him in the latter end of his life, which, on that account, will not be the less interesting.
In consequence of a violent quarrel which Michael Scott once had with a person whom he conceived to have caused him some injury, Michael resolved, as the highest punishment he could inflict upon him, to send his adversary to that evil place designed only for Satan and his black companions. He, accordingly, by means of his supernatural machinations, sent the poor unfortunate man thither; and had he been sent by any other means than those of Michael Scott, he would no doubt have met with a warm reception. Out of pure spite to Michael, however, when Satan learned who was his billet-master, he would no more receive him than he would receive the Wife of Beth; and, instead of treating the unfortunate man with that harshness characteristic of him, he showed him considerable civilities. Introducing him to his “Ben Taigh,” he directed her to show the stranger any curiosities he might wish to see, hinting very significantly that he had provided some accommodations for their mutual friend Michael Scott, the sight of which might afford him some gratification. The polite housekeeper, accordingly, conducted the stranger through the principal apartments in the house, where he saw sights which, it is hoped, the reader will never witness. But the bed of Michael Scott!—his greatest enemy could not but feel satiate with revenge at the sight of it. It was a place too horrid to be described, filled promiscuously with all the horrid brutes imaginable. Toads and lions, lizards and leeches, and, amongst the rest, not the least conspicuous, a large serpent gaping for Michael Scott, with its mouth wide open. This last sight having satisfied the stranger’s curiosity, he was led to the outer gate, and came off with far more agreeable reflections than when he entered.
He reached his friends, and, among other pieces of news touching his travels, he was not backward in relating the entertainment that awaited his friend Michael Scott, as soon as he would stretch his foot for the other world. But Michael did not at all appear disconcerted at his friend’s intelligence. He affirmed that he would disappoint the d—l and him both in their expectations. In proof of which, he gave the following signs: “When I am just dead,” says he, “open my breast, and extract my heart. Carry it to some place where the public may see the result. You will then transfix it upon a long pole, and if Satan will have my soul, he will come in the likeness of a black raven, and carry it off; and if my soul will be saved, it will be carried off by a white dove.” His friends faithfully obeyed his instructions. Having exhibited his heart in the manner directed, a large black raven was observed to come from the east with great fleetness; while a white dove came from the west with equal velocity. The raven made a furious dash at the heart, missing which, it was unable to curb its force, till it was considerably past it; and the dove, reaching the spot at the same time, carried off the heart amidst the cheers and ejaculations of the spectators.
CHAPTER IV.
OF THEIR DOMESTIC ECONOMY AND FESTIVE HABITS.
It is well known that the fairies are a sociable people, passionately given to festive amusements and jocund hilarity. Hence, it seldom happens that they cohabit in pairs, like most other species, but rove about in bands, each band having a stated habitation or residence, to which they resort as occasion suggests.
Their habitations are generally found in rough irregular precipices and broken caverns, remarkable for wildness of scenery, from whence we may infer that they are particularly fond of what we term the Romantic. These habitations are composed of stones, in the form of irregular turrets, of such size and shapes as the nature of the materials and the taste of the architect happened to suggest, and so solid in their structure as frequently to resemble “masses of rocks or earthen hillocks.”
Their doors, windows, smoke-vents, and other conveniences, are so artfully constructed, as to be invisible to the naked eye in day-light, though in dark nights splendid lights are frequently reflected through their invisible casements.
Within those “Tomhans,” or, as others term them, “Shian,” sociality and mirth are ever the inmates,—and they are so much addicted to dancing, that it forms their chief and favourite amusement. The length of their reels will be judged of from the following narrative:
“Once upon a time, a tenant in the neighbourhood of Cairngorm in Strathspey emigrated with his family and cattle to the forest of Glenavon, which is well known to be inhabited by many fairies as well as ghosts. Two of his sons having been one night late out in search of some of their sheep which had strayed, they had occasion to pass a fairy turret, or dwelling, of very large dimensions; and what was their astonishment on observing streams of the most refulgent light shining forth through innumerable crevices in the rock—crevices which the sharpest eye in the country had never seen before. Curiosity led them towards the turret, when they were charmed by the most exquisite sounds ever emitted by a fiddle-string, which, joined to the sportive mirth and glee accompanying it, reconciled them in a great measure to the scene, although they knew well enough the inhabitants were fairies. Nay, overpowered by the enchanting jigs played by the fiddler, one of the brothers had even the hardihood to propose that they should pay the occupants of the turret a short visit. To this motion the other brother, fond as he was of dancing, and animated as he was by the music, would by no means consent, and very earnestly inculcated upon his brother many pithy arguments well calculated to restrain his curiosity. But every new jig that was played, and every new reel that was danced, inspired the adventurous brother with additional ardour; and at length, completely fascinated by the enchanting revelry, leaving all prudence behind, at one leap he entered the ‘Shian.’ The poor forlorn brother was now left in a most uncomfortable situation. His grief for the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved suggested to him more than once the desperate idea of sharing his fate, by following his example. But, on the other hand, when he coolly considered the possibility of sharing very different entertainment from that which rung upon his ears, and remembering, too, the comforts and conveniences of his father’s fireside, the idea immediately appeared to him any thing but prudent. After a long and disagreeable altercation between his affection for his brother and his regard for himself, he came to the resolution of trying a middle course;—that is, to send in at the window a few remonstrances to his brother, which if he did not attend to, let the consequences be upon his own head. Accordingly, taking his station at one of the crevices, and calling upon his brother, three several times, by name, as use is, he sent in to him, as aforesaid, the most moving pieces of elocution he could think upon,—imploring him, as he valued his poor parent’s life and blessing, to come forth and go home with him, Donald Macgillivray, his thrice affectionate and unhappy brother. But, whether it was he could not hear this eloquent harangue, or, what is more probable, that he did not choose to attend to it, certain it is, that it proved totally ineffectual to accomplish its object,—and the consequence was, that Donald Macgillivray found it equally much his duty and his interest to return home to his family with the melancholy tale of poor Rory’s fate. All the prescribed ceremonies calculated to rescue him from the fairy dominion were resorted to by his mourning relatives without effect, and Rory was supposed as lost for ever, when a wise man of the day having learned the circumstance, set them upon a plan of having him delivered at the end of twelve months from his entry. ‘Return,’ says the Duin Glichd to Donald, ‘to the place where you lost your brother, a year and a day from the time. You will insert in your garment a Rowan Cross, which will protect you from the fairies’ interposition. Enter the turret boldly and resolutely, in the name of the Highest claim your brother, and, if he does not accompany you voluntarily, seize him and carry him off by force,—none dare interfere with you.’”
The experiment appeared to the cautious contemplative brother as one that was fraught with no ordinary danger, and he would have most willingly declined the prominent character allotted to him in the performance of it, but for the importunate entreaty of his friends, who implored him, as he valued their blessing, not to slight such excellent advice. Their entreaties, together with his confidence in the virtues of the Rowan Cross, overcame his scruples, and he, at length, agreed to put the experiment in practice, whatever the result might be.
Well then, the important day arrived, when the father of those two sons was destined either to recover his lost son, or to lose the only son he had, and, anxious as the father felt, Donald Macgillivray, the intended adventurer, felt no less on the occasion. The hour of midnight approached, when the drama was to be acted, and Donald Macgillivray, loaded with all the charms and benedictions in his country, took mournful leave of his friends, and proceeded to the scene of his intended enterprise. On approaching the well-known turret, a repetition of that mirth and those ravishing sounds, that had been the source of so much sorrow to himself and family, once more attracted his attention, without at all creating in his mind any extraordinary feelings of satisfaction. On the contrary, he abhorred the sounds most heartily, and felt much greater inclination to recede than to advance. But what was to be done? courage, character, and every thing dear to him, were at stake—so that to advance was his only alternative. In short, he reached the “Shian,” and after twenty fruitless attempts, he at length entered the place with trembling footsteps, and, amidst the brilliant and jovial scene, the not least gratifying spectacle which presented itself to Donald was his brother Rory earnestly engaged at the Highland Fling on the floor, at which, as might have been expected, he had greatly improved. Without losing much time in satisfying his curiosity, by examining the quality of the company, he ran to his brother, repeating, most vehemently, the words prescribed to him by the “Wise man”—seized him by the collar, and insisted he should immediately accompany him home to his poor afflicted parents. Rory assented, provided he would allow him to finish his single reel, assuring Donald, very earnestly, that he had not been half an hour in the house. In vain did the latter assure the former, that, instead of half an hour, he had actually remained twelve months. Nor would he have believed his overjoyed friends on reaching home, “did not the calves, now grown into stots, and the newborn babes, now travelling the house, at length convince him, that in his single reel he had danced for a twelvemonth and a day.”
This reel, however, in which Rory Macgillivray had been engaged, although it may be considered of pretty moderate length, will form but a short space in a night’s entertainment, of which the following is a brief account:
“Nearly three hundred years ago, there lived in Strathspey two men, greatly celebrated for their performances on the fiddle. It happened upon a certain Christmas time that they had formed the resolution of going to Inverness, to be employed in their musical capacities during that festive season. Accordingly, having arrived in that great town, and secured lodgings, they sent round the newsman and his bell, to announce to the inhabitants their arrival in town, and the object of it, their great celebrity in their own country, the number of tunes they played, and their rate of charge per day, per night, or hour. Very soon after, they were called upon by a venerable-looking old man, grey-haired and somewhat wrinkled, of genteel deportment and liberal disposition; for, instead of grudging their charges, as they expected, he only said that he would double the demand. They cheerfully agreed to accompany him, and soon they found themselves at the door of a very curious dwelling, the appearance of which they did not at all relish. It was night, but still they could easily distinguish the house to be neither like the great Castle Grant, Castle Lethindry, Castle Roy, or Castle-na-muchkeruch at home, nor like any other house they had seen on their travels. It resembled a huge fairy ‘Tomhan,’ such as are seen in Glenmore. But the mild persuasive eloquence of the guide, reinforced by the irresistible arguments of a purse of gold, soon removed any scruples they felt at the idea of entering so novel a mansion. They entered the place, and all sensations of fear were soon absorbed in those of admiration of the august assembly which surrounded them; strings tuned to sweet harmony soon gave birth to glee in the dwelling. The floor bounded beneath the agile ‘fantastic toe,’ and gaiety in its height pervaded every soul present. The night passed on harmoniously, while the diversity of the reels and the loveliness of the dancers presented to the fiddlers the most gratifying scene they ever witnessed; and in the morning, when the ball was terminated, they took their leave, sorry that the time of their engagement was so short, and highly gratified at the liberal treatment which they experienced. But what was their astonishment, on issuing forth from this strange dwelling, when they beheld the novel scene which surrounded them. Instead of coming out of a castle, they found they had come out of a little hill, they knew not what way; and on entering the town they found those objects which yesterday shone in all the splendour of novelty, to-day exhibit only the ruins and ravages of time, while the strange innovations of dress and manners displayed by their numerous spectators filled them with wonder and consternation. At last a mutual understanding took place between themselves and the crowd assembled to look upon them, and a short account of their adventures led the more sagacious part of the spectators to suspect at once that they had been paying a visit to the inhabitants of Tomnafurich, which, not long ago, was the grand rendezvous of many of the fairy bands inhabiting the surrounding districts; and the arrival of a very old man on the spot set the matter fairly at rest. On being attracted by the crowd, he walked up to the two poor old oddities, who were the subject of amazement, and having learned their history, thus addressed them: ‘You are the two men my great-grandfather lodged, and who, it was supposed, were decoyed by Thomas Rymer to Tomnafurich. Sore did your friends lament your loss—but the lapse of a hundred years has now rendered your name extinct.’
“Finding every circumstance conspire to verify the old man’s story, the poor fiddlers were naturally inspired with feelings of reverential awe at the secret wonders of the Deity—and it being the Sabbath-day, they naturally wished to indulge those feelings in a place of worship. They, accordingly, proceeded to church, and took their places, to hear public worship, and sat for a while listening to the pealing bells, which, while they summoned the remainder of the congregation to church, summoned them to their long homes. When the ambassador of peace ascended the sacred place, to announce to his flock the glad tidings of the Gospel—strange to tell, at the first word uttered by his lips, his ancient hearers, the poor deluded fiddlers, both crumbled into dust.”
CHAPTER V.
OF THE PASSIONS AND PROPENSITIES OF THE FAIRIES.
The ingenious reader must not suppose that, because the fairies were once angelic, they have continued so in this corrupt world to the present day. They will be found to exhibit in their conduct as signal proofs of degeneracy from their original innocence and worth as their mortal contemporary, man; and, as may be concluded, this degeneracy has entailed upon them those passions and infirmities, from which they were, no doubt, once on a time exempt.
The fairies are remarkable for the amorousness of their dispositions, and are not very backward in forming attachments and connections with the people that cannot with propriety be called their own species. We are told it is an undeniable fact, that it was once a common practice with both sexes of the fairy people to form intimacies with human swains and damsels, whom they would visit at times and in places highly unbecoming and suspicious; and these improper intimacies not unfrequently produced, as may be well believed, their natural consequences. It exposed the fairy-females to that indisposition to which, before their fall, they were no doubt strangers—we mean the pains of child-birth, which, it seems, they suffer in common with their earthly neighbours. To the more sceptical part of our readers, the idea of fairy fruition may appear somewhat incredible. In order, however, to remove any doubt on the subject, we submit the particulars of a fairy accouchement, which took place, no doubt, “a considerable time ago,” in the wilds of Cairngorm:
“A considerable time ago there was a woman living in the neighbourhood of Cairngorm in Strathspey, by profession a midwife, of extensive practice, and esteemed, indeed, the best midwife in the district. One night, while she was preparing for bed, there came a loud knocking to her door, indicating great haste in the person that knocked. The midwife was accustomed to such late intrusions, and concluded, even before she opened the door, that her presence was too much required at a sick-bed. She found the person that knocked to be a rider and his horse, both out of breath, and most impatient for her company. The rider entreated the midwife to make haste, and jump up behind him without a single moment’s delay, else that the life of an amiable woman was lost for ever. But the midwife, having a great regard to cleanliness and decorum, requested leave to exchange her apparel before she set out; a motion which, on the part of the rider, was met with a decided negative, and nothing would satisfy the rider but that the midwife would immediately jump up behind him on his grey horse. His importunities were irresistible, the midwife mounted, and off they flew at full gallop. The midwife being now seated, and fleeing on the road, she began naturally to question her guide what he was—where he was going—and how far. He, however, declined immediately making any other reply to her questions than merely saying that she would be well rewarded, which, however consoling, was far from being satisfactory information to the midwife. At length the course they pursued, and the road they took, alarmed the midwife beyond measure, and her guide found it necessary to appease her fears by explaining the matter, otherwise she would, in all probability, prove inadequate to the discharge of her duty. ‘My good woman,’ says the fairy to the midwife, ‘be not alarmed; though I am conducting you to a fairy habitation to assist a fairy lady in distress, be not dismayed, I beseech you; for I promise you, by all that is sacred, you shall sustain no injury, but will be safely restored to your dwelling when your business is effected, with such boon or present as you shall choose to ask or accept of.’ The fairy was a sweet good-looking young fellow, and the candour of his speech and the mildness of his demeanour soothed her fears, and reconciled the Ben Ghlun, in a great measure, to the enterprise. They were not long in reaching the place, when the midwife found the fairy lady in any thing but easy circumstances, and soon proved the auspicious instrument of bringing to the world a fine lusty boy. All was joy and rejoicing in consequence, and all the fairies in the turret flattered and caressed the midwife. She was desired to choose any gift in the power of fairies to grant, which was instantly to be given her. Upon which she asked, as a boon, that whomsoever she or her posterity should attend in her professional capacity, a safe and speedy delivery should be insured them. The favour was instantly conferred on her, and all know to this day that Muruch-na-Ban, the man-midwife, possesses, in no inconsiderable degree, the professional talents of his great-grandmother.”
Before concluding this chapter, we owe it, in justice to both the human and fairy communities of the present day, to say, that such intercourse as that described to have taken place betwixt them is now extremely rare; and, with the single exception of a good old shoemaker, now or lately living in the village of Tomantoul, who confesses having had some dalliances with a “lanan shi” in his younger days, we do not know personally any one who has carried matters this length.
CHAPTER VI.
OF THE FAIRY’S EMBEZZLING AND CRIMINAL PROPENSITIES.
But, although the correspondence now subsisting between the human and fairy people is much more chaste and innocent than it was of old, still it appears that the strong predilection which the fairies entertained for human society is far from being yet extinguished. It is no doubt the existence of this predilection on the part of the former, and the increasing shyness on the part of the latter, that could induce the fairies to resort to those dishonest methods to which they now recur, to have their passion for human society gratified.
We presume the reader is aware that the fairies are much addicted to that heinous crime child-stealing—a crime which these people, in consequence, no doubt, of their long experience in the practice, commit with wonderful address. Often have they robbed the inexperienced mother of her tender babe in the height of day, while his place is taken by an impudent impostor, whose sham sickness and death entail on the unhappy parent an additional load of misery. To warn unsuspicious mothers of the dangers to which themselves and their offspring are exposed from fairy practices, the following narrative may be of use:
“There were once two natives of Strathspey who were in the habit of dealing a little in the whisky way—that is to say, they were accustomed occasionally to visit a family in Glenlivat, from whom they would buy a few barrels, which they would again dispose of among the gentlemen of Badenoch and Fort-William, to pretty good account; and on those occasions, for reasons well known to every district gauger, (an evil death to him!) the Strathspeymen always found it most convenient to travel by night. Well, then, on one of those occasions, as they were busy measuring the whisky in the friend’s house at Glenlivat, a little child belonging to the goodman, and which lay in the cradle, uttered a piteous cry, as if it had been shot. The goodwife, according to custom, blessed her child, and, as she supposed, raised it from the cradle. Ascribing the cry merely to infantine frailty or fretfulness, the Strathspeymen took no particular notice of it, and having their business transacted, they proceeded on their way with their cargo. A short distance from their friend’s house, they were not a little astonished to find a little child abandoned on the high road, without a being in sight of it. One of the lads took it up in his arms, on which it ceased its plaintive cries, and with great fondness clasped his little hands round his neck, and smiled. This naturally excited some curiosity, and on closer examination they clearly recognised it to be their friend’s child. Suspicion was instantly attached to the fairies, and this suspicion was a great deal strengthened by the circumstance of the cry uttered by the child, as already mentioned. Indeed, they came to an immediate conclusion that the fairies, having embezzled the real child, then in their possession, and deposited a stock or substitute in its place, it was the lucky presence of mind discovered by its mother in blessing it, on its having uttered the cry, that rescued it from fairy dominion, for no sooner was the blessing pronounced than they were compelled to abandon the child. As their time was limited, they could not with convenience immediately return to their friend’s house to solve the mysterious occurrence, but proceeded on their journey, taking special care of their little foundling.
“In about a fortnight thereafter, having occasion for a few barrels more, they returned to Glenlivat, taking the child along with them, which, however, they concealed on arriving at the father’s house. In the course of mutual inquiries for each other’s welfare, the goodwife took occasion to lament very bitterly a severe and protracted illness which seized her child on the night of their preceding visit, the nature of which illness could not be ascertained, but, at all events, certain death was the consequence to the child. During this lamentation, the impostor uttered the most piteous cries, and appeared in the last stage of his sufferings; upon this, the lads, without any preliminary remarks, produced their little charge, telling the mother to take courage, that they now presented her with her real child, as healthy and thriving as a trout, and that the object of her great solicitude was nothing more than a barefaced fairy impostor. A short statement of facts induced the happy mother to agree to an exchange, she receiving back her child, and the lads the stock or impostor, to whom his new proprietors proceeded to administer a warm specific commonly given to his kin on similar occasions. They procured an old creel and a bunch of straw, in order to try the effects the burning element would have in curing him of his grievous complaints. But at the appearance of those articles, the stock took the hint, and not choosing to wait a trial of its effects, flew out at the smoke-hole, telling the exulting spectators, on attaining the top of the ‘Lum,’ that, had it not been for the unfortunate arrival of the two travellers, he should have given the inmates very different entertainment.”
When we reflect upon the extreme covetousness manifested by the fairies for human children, the frequent instances of their embezzlement, and, on the other hand, the ease and simplicity by which these robberies can be foiled, we feel persuaded neither mother nor nurse will now neglect the safeguards prescribed for the preservation of children from such practices. It is universally allowed by people conversant in those important matters, that suspending the child’s head downwards, on its being dressed in the morning, is an excellent preservative from every species of supernatural agency, and this is certainly a cheap and simple process. A red thread tied about its neck, or a rowan cross, are said to be equally efficacious in preventing the influence of evil spirits, evil eyes, and other calamities of the same description.
But as it is natural to suppose that those precautions will still be sometimes neglected, as they have always too often been, it is fortunate that a remedy has been discovered for those desperate cases, where repentance for past imprudence would not avail. When a child has actually been stolen, and a stock or substitute left in its stead, the child may be recovered in the following manner:—Let the stock be carried to the junction of three shires, or the confluence of three rivers, where it is to be left for the night; and it is a certain fact, that if the child has been stolen by the fairies, they must, in the course of the night, return the genuine offspring, and take away the spurious one.[C]
But children are not the only objects of their envy. They are equally covetous of pregnant females at a certain juncture, when they embrace every opportunity of securing them, well knowing that, by such acquisitions, they obtain a double bargain. The process of stealing women is the same as that of stealing children, only their ranges in quest of such prizes are much more extensive, as the following story will show:
“There was once a courageous clever man, of the name of John Roy, who lived in Glenbrown, in the parish of Abernethy. One night, as John Roy was out traversing the hills for his cattle, he happened to fall in with a fairy banditti, whose manner of travelling indicated that they carried along with them some booty. Recollecting an old, and, it seems, a faithful saying, that the fairies are obliged to exchange any booty they may possess for any return, however unequal in value, on being challenged to that effect, John Roy took off his bonnet, and threw it towards them, demanding a fair exchange in the emphatic Gaelic phrase, Sluis sho slumus Sheen.[D] It was, no doubt, an unprofitable barter for the fairies. They, however, it would appear, had no other alternative but to comply with John Roy’s demand; and in room of the bonnet, they abandoned the burden, which turned out to be nothing more nor less than a fine fresh lady, who, from her dress and language, appeared to be a Sasonach. With great humanity, John Roy conducted the unfortunate lady to his house, where she was treated with the utmost tenderness for several years; and the endearing attentions paid to her by John and his family won so much her affections as to render her soon happy in her lot. Her habits became gradually assimilated to those of her new society; and the Saxon lady was no longer viewed in any other character than as a member of John Roy’s family.
“It happened, however, in the course of time, that the new king found it necessary to make the great roads through those countries by means of soldiers, for the purpose of letting coaches and carriages pass to the northern cities; and those soldiers had officers and commanders in the same way as our fighting army have now. Those soldiers were never great favourites in these countries, particularly during the time that our own kings were alive; and, consequently, it was no easy matter for them, either officers or men, to procure for themselves comfortable quarters. But John Roy forgot the national animosity of his countrymen to the Cotton Darg (red coat), when the latter appealed to his generosity as an individual; and he, accordingly, did not hesitate to offer an asylum under his roof to a Saxon captain and his son, who commanded a party employed in his immediate neighbourhood. His offer was thankfully accepted of, and while the strangers were highly delighted at the cleanliness and economy of the house and family of their host, the latter was quite satisfied with the frankness and urbanity of manners displayed by his guests. One thing, however, caused some feelings of uneasiness to John Roy, and that was the extreme curiosity manifested by them, whenever they were in the company or presence of his English foundling, on whom their eyes were continually rivetted, as if she were a ghost or a fairy. On one occasion, it happened that the captain’s son lapsed into a state of the profoundest meditation, gazing upon this lady with silent emotion. ‘My son,’ says the captain, his father, ‘tell me what is the cause of your deep meditation?’—‘Father,’ replies the sweet youth, ‘I think on the days that are gone; and of my dearest mother, who is now no more. I have been led into those reflections by the appearance of that lady who is now before me. Oh, father! does she not strikingly resemble the late partner of your heart; she for whom you so often mourn in secret?’—‘Indeed, my son,’ replied the father, ‘the resemblance has frequently recurred to me too forcibly. Never were twin sisters more like; and, were not the thing impossible, I should even say she was my dearest departed wife;’—pronouncing her name as he spoke, and also the names of characters nearly connected to both parties. Attracted by the mention of her real name, which she had not heard repeated for a number of years before, and attracted still more by the nature of their conversation, the lady, on strict examination of the appearance of the strangers, instantly recognised her tender husband and darling son. Natural instinct could be no longer restrained. She threw herself upon her husband’s bosom; and Ossian, the son of Fingal, could not describe in adequate terms the transports of joy that prevailed at the meeting. Suffice it to say, that the Saxon lady was again restored to her affectionate husband, pure and unblemished as when he lost her, and John Roy gratified by the only reward he would accept of—the pleasure of doing good.”
From the sequel of the story, it appears that some of the hordes of fairies, inhabiting the “Shian of Coir-laggack,” found it convenient, for purposes which may be easily guessed at, to take a trip to the south of England, and made no scruple to kidnap this lady in the absence of her husband, and on the occasion of her accouchement. A stock was, of course, deposited in her stead—which, of course, died in a few days after—and which, of course, was interred in the full persuasion of its being the lady in question, with all the splendour which her merits deserved. Thus would the perfidious fairies have enjoyed the fruits of their cunning, without even a suspicion of their knavery, were it not for the “cleverness and generosity of John Roy, who once lived in Glenbrown.”
The natural passions, lusts, and covetousness of which we have now shown the fairies to be possessed, are not, however, our only grounds for calling in question the fitness of their title to angelic nature and attributes. For it will be seen, from some traits in their character about to be detailed, that their appetites are as keen and voluptuous as their inclinations are corrupt and wicked. Our readers would be apt to believe, from the first outline of their character, that they were an amiable, harmless race of people, strictly honest, and given entirely to innocent amusements. But it is a fact too well known, that many of them are employed in very different avocations from mirth and dancing; for, to repeat an old Scottish proverb, “if a’ tales be true,” thieving and blackguarding occupy fully as much of their time as mirth and dancing. And what is still worse, it is much suspected that their proneness to theft and knavery is not so much the effect of necessity, as it is the effect of wanton depravity. However base and degrading in the eyes of society appears the thief, even when his deviation from honesty is the result of sheer necessity, he appears infinitely more so when he is solely led to the commission of crimes from wanton levity. Hence the indignation which a worthy man feels, whenever those pilfering depredators embezzle the fruits of his honest industry. The whirlwind is not the alone engine of robbery to which the fairies resort; they recur to others of a more direct and ruinous character; while the loser, from the speciousness of their artifices, is seldom conscious of the true cause of his loss. In order to expose the wantonness of such pillage as they will be shown to be guilty of, we need only call our reader’s attention to the extent of the indisputable perquisites which they derive from fire and other calamities incident to the estate of man, many of which calamities, we are told, are accomplished by their agency. As, however, we would not readily accuse them of crimes so atrocious, without some foundation, we submit the following particulars to the judgment of our readers, leaving them to draw their own inferences.
“One day a fairy woman, residing in the turrets of Craig-Aulnaic, called on one of the tenants’ wives in Delnabo, in her neighbourhood, and requested of her the loan of a firlot of oatmeal for meat to her family, promising she would return it in a very short time, as she herself hourly expected a considerable supply. Not choosing, for so small a trifle, to incur the fairy’s displeasure, the tenant’s wife complied with her request, from the same motives as if she had been the exciseman. After regaling the fairy with a dram and bread and cheese, as is the custom of the country, she went out to give her the customary convoy. On ascending the eminence above the town, the ‘Benshi’ paused, and, with apparent exultation, told the tenant’s wife that she might take her meal home with her, as she herself was now supplied as she expected. The woman, without putting any impertinent questions to the lady as to the source whence her supply proceeded, cheerfully agreed to receive back her meal, and took leave of her visitor. She was not a little surprised, however, to observe, in a few minutes thereafter, the corn-kiln of an adjacent farm in total conflagration, with all its contents.”
Over and above this, all liquids spilled on the ground are supposed to go to their use; and there are some people even so charitable as purposely to reserve for their participation a share of the best they possess. It is not unlikely that such generous actions were in some degree influenced by such returns as the following:—
“Once upon a time, a farmer, in Strathspey, was engaged sowing a field upon his farm, and, as is not uncommon, he accompanied his labours with a cheerful song. Now the fairies are very fond of music, and not less so of spoil,—and whether it was the music or the seed that attracted her most to the spot, certain it is, that a fairy damsel, of great beauty and elegance, presented herself to the farmer. She requested of him, as a particular favour, to sing her an old Gaelic song, ‘Nighan Donne na Bual;’ and, when this favour was granted her, she sought of him a present of corn. Although he had far less objections to her first request than he had to her second, he did not flatly refuse her, but he did what any prudent man would do in similar circumstances,—he inquired what she would give him in return. She answered, that, provided he granted her request, his seed would not the more speedily fail him; and this assurance she enforced with a look so significant, as to induce him at once to supply her very liberally from his bag. She then departed, and he resumed his work. He was soon after very agreeably surprised, when he found that, after sowing abundantly a large field, wont to take five times the bulk of his bag, it appeared equal in size and weight to what it was when he met with the fairy nymph. Far from being in the least confounded at the agreeable circumstance, he threw his bag over his shoulder, highly satisfied at the act of munificence he did in the morning, and sowed with it another field of equal extent, without its exhibiting any appearance of diminution. Perfectly satisfied now with his day’s labour, he returned home, fully determined to take care of his bag. But, just as he was entering the barn door, who met him but his wife, ‘who was a foolish talkative hussey, having a tongue as long, and a head as empty, as the parish church bell.’ With her usual loquacity she accosted him, expressing her astonishment at the unaccountable nature of the sack, that had thus sown half their farm,—expressing, moreover, very notable suspicions of the cause. Now it is well known that, whenever any supernatural agency is challenged, the spell is instantly broken. So that the clashmaclavering Jezebel had scarcely uttered those inconsiderate and highly reprehensible words, when the burden on the farmer’s back became an empty bag. ‘I’ll be your death, you foolish, foolish woman,’ exclaimed her woe-struck husband; ‘were it not for your imprudent talk, this bag were worth its weight of gold.’”
Such relations as the foregoing should go very far to induce every prudent and foreseeing man to be on as friendly a footing as possible with those capricious and all-powerful people, especially when their friendship is to be purchased on such reasonable terms as those of which we have just read. The unhappy hero of the following narrative was convinced, when too late, of the truth of this observation.
“A farmer, who at one time occupied the farm of Auchriachan, of Strathavon, was one day searching for his goats in a remote hill in Glenlivat, and what came on but a thick hazy fog, which marred his way, and bewildered his senses. Every stone, magnified by the delusion of the moment, appeared a mountain; every rivulet seemed to him to run in an opposite direction to its usual course; and the unhappy traveller thought of his fireside, which he expected never to see more. Night came on apace; its horrific gloom, as it approached, dispelled the unhappy wanderer’s forlorn hopes, and he now sat down to prepare for the world that has no end. Involved in perplexity at his unhappy situation, he threw a mournful look on the gloomy scene around him, as if to bid the world an eternal adieu,—when, lo! a twinkling light glimmered on his eye. It was a cheering blink that administered comfort to his soul. His frigid limbs, which lately refused their office, recovered their vigour. His exhausted frame became animated and energetic: and he immediately directed his course towards the light, which, from its reflection, seemed not far distant. On reaching the place, however, his joy was a good deal damped when he examined the nature of the place whence the light reflected. A human foot never seemed to have visited the scene; it was one of wildness and horror. Life, however, is exceedingly sweet when we are on the brink of losing it, and necessity had so far subdued every vestige of fear, that Auchriachan resolved at all hazards to take a night’s lodging with the inmates, whatever their nature or calling might be. The door was open, and he entered the place. His courage, however, was a good deal appalled, on meeting at the door an old female acquaintance, whose funeral he had recently attended, and who, it appeared, acted in this family in the capacity of housewife. But this meeting, however disagreeable it proved to Auchriachan in one respect, ultimately turned out a fortunate circumstance for him, inasmuch as his old acquaintance was the happy means of saving his life. On observing Auchriachan—for that was the farmer’s title—enter the abode, she instantly ran towards him, and told him he was done for, unless he chose to slip in into a bye-corner off the principal apartment, where he had better remain until she found an opportunity of effecting his escape. The advice of the friendly housekeeper he thought it prudent to adopt, and he was accordingly content to hide himself in a crevice in the apartment. Scarce had he done so, when there entered the dwelling an immense concourse of fairies, who had been all day absent upon some important expedition; and being well appetized by their journey, they all cried out for some food. Having all sat in council, the question proposed for discussion was, ‘What was their supper to consist of?’—When an old sagacious looking fairy, who sat in the chimney corner, spoke as follows: ‘Celestial gentlemen, you all know and abhor that old miserly fellow the taxman of Auchriachan. Mean and penurious, he appropriates nothing to us; but, on the contrary, disappoints us of our very dues. By learning too well the lesson taught him by his old and wizened grand-mother, nothing escapes a blessing and a safeguard; and the consequence is, that we cannot interfere with the gleanings on his fields, far less the stock and produce. Now, Auchriachan himself is not at home this night; he is in search of his goats, our allies,[E]—his less careful household have neglected the customary safeguards; and, lo! his goods are at our mercy. Come, let us have his favourite ox to supper.’—‘Bravo!’ exclaimed the whole assembly; ‘the opinion of Thomas Rymer is always judicious; Auchriachan is certainly a miserable devil, and we shall have his favourite ox to supper.’—‘But whence shall we procure bread to eat with him?’ inquired a greedy-looking fairy. ‘We shall have the new baken bread of Auchriachan,’ replied the sagacious and sage counsellor, Mr. Rymer; ‘for he is a miserly old fellow—he himself is not at home, and his wife has forgot to cross the first bannock.’—‘Bravo!’ exclaimed the whole assembly. ‘By all means, let us have the new baken bread of Auchriachan.’
“Thus did Auchriachan, honest man, who, indeed, was not at home, with no very grateful feelings, learn the fate of his favourite ox, without, however, dissenting from the general voice that pronounced his doom. And, in pursuance of the same unpleasant decision, he had the additional mortification to see his ill-fated ox deliberately introduced by the nose and killed in his presence. Meantime, when all were engaged cooking the ox, the officious housekeeper took occasion, under pretence of some other errand, to relieve Auchriachan from his uncomfortable seclusion. On issuing forth from Mr. Rymer’s council-chamber, Auchriachan found the mist had entirely disappeared—the stones were now of their natural size—the rivulets now ran their usual course—the moon threw her silver mantle over the lately murky scene, and he had now no difficulty to make his way home, lamenting most sincerely the lot of his favourite ox.
“On arriving at home, he was cordially welcomed by his happy family, whose great anxiety for his safety was probably the cause of the omission of that duty that poor Auchriachan had so much cause to deplore. His overjoyed wife, supposing her husband to be no doubt in a hungry case, provided a basket of new baked bread and milk, and urged him to eat, for sure he might well be hungry. He did not, however, mind her solicitude for his comfort—he was sorry and sullen, and cared not for the provision, particularly the bread, well knowing it was only an abominable phantom. At last he inquired, ‘Which of you served the oxen this night, my lads?’—‘It was I, my father,’ replied one of his sons. ‘And did you mind the customary safeguard?’—‘Indeed,’ says the son, ‘from my great agitation for the fate of my father, I believe I forgot.’—‘Alas! alas!’ exclaimed the affectionate farmer, ‘my dear and favourite ox is no more!’—‘What!’ exclaims one of his sons, ‘I saw him alive not two hours ago!’—‘It was only a fairy stock,’ says Auchriachan. ‘Bring him out here until I dispatch him.’ The farmer then, venting the most unqualified expressions of his indignation upon the stock and its knavish proprietors, struck it such a pithy blow on the forehead as felled it to the ground. Rolling down the brae, at the back of the house, to the bottom, there it lay and the bread along with it, both unmolested; for it was a remarkable circumstance, that neither dog nor cat ever put a tooth on the carcase.”
It now only remains for us to describe the most heinous of all their crimes, a crime which we are peculiarly reluctant to bring so openly to light, did not our impartiality as an historian compel us. This crime consists in their destruction of human beings, and their cattle, by means of their magical dart, commonly called an elf-bolt. Those bolts are of various sizes, of a hard yellowish substance, resembling somewhat the flint, for which they are no bad substitutes. The bolt is very frequently of the shape of a heart, its edges being indented like a saw, and very sharp at the point. This deadly weapon the wicked fairy will throw at man or beast with such precision as seldom to miss his aim; and whenever it hits, the stroke is fatal. Such is the great force with which it is flung, that on its striking the object it instantaneously perforates it to the heart, and a sudden death is the consequence. In the blinking of an eye, a man or an ox is struck down cold-dead, and, strange to say, the wound is not discernible to an ordinary person, unless he is possessed of the charm that enables some wise people to trace the course of the bolt, and ultimately discover it in the dead body.—Note, whenever this fatal instrument is discovered, it should be carefully preserved, as it defends its possessor from the fatal consequences of the “Fay,” so long as he retains it about him.
Having now travelled over the leading traits of the fairy’s character, publicly and privately, we shall now conclude our treatise of him by subjoining a few of the most approved cures and safeguards, which afford protection from his dangerous practices. An abler historian might be disposed to offer some learned observations on the strange incongruity of character exhibited by the fairy in the preceding sketches, and endeavour, if he could, to reconcile them so as to form any thing like a rational subject. As a plain unvarnished compiler, however, we have discharged our duty; we have detailed, to the best of our ability, the fairy’s character, according to the nature of our materials; and if our delineations are strange and inconsistent, the fault lies either with the fairy or his professed historians, and not with the mere machine, ourself, the compiler.
Go to the summit of some stupendous cliff or mountain, where any species of quadruped has never fed nor trod, and gather of that herb in the Gaelic language called “Mohan,” which can be pointed out by any “wise person.” This herb you will give to a cow, and of the milk of that cow you are to make a cheese, and whoever eats of that cheese is for ever after, as well as his gear, perfectly secure from every species of fairy agency.
A piece of torch fir carried about the person, and a knife made of iron which has never been applied to any purpose, are both excellent preservatives.
A piece of cold iron or steel put into the bed of a lady “uneasy in her circumstances” will protect mother and offspring from being “Fayed.”
PART III.
Brownies.
Brownie has got a cowl and coat,
And never more will work a jot.