“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.”