In one of the steeps of Cruächan, nearly opposite the rock of Brandir, there is a secret cave, now only known to a very few of the old fox-hunters and shepherds: it is still called “Uagh Phadian,” Mac Phadian’s cave; and is asserted by tradition to be the place in which Mac Phadian died. The remembrance of the battle is nearly worn away, and the knowledge of the real cave confined to so few, that the den in which Mac Phadian was killed is generally believed to be in the cliffs of Craiganuni: this is merely owing to the appearance of a black chasm in the face of that height, and to a confusion between the action of Mac Phadian with Wallace, and his pursuit of sir Niel Campbell. But the chasm in Craiganuni, though at a distance it appears like the mouth of a cave, is but a cleft in the rock; and the few who retain the memory of the genuine tradition of the battle of the Wallace, universally agree that the cave in the side of Cruächan was that in which Mac Phadian was killed.
The “Bridal of Caölchairn” is a legendary poem, founded upon a very slight tradition, concerning events which are related to have occurred during the absence of sir Colin Campbell on his expedition to Rome and Arragon. It is said by the tale, that the chieftain was gone ten years, and that his wife having received no intelligence of his existence in that time, she accepted the addresses of one of her husband’s vassals, Mac Nab of Barachastailan. The bridal was fixed; but on the day when it was to have been solemnized, the secret was imparted to sir Colin in Spain, by a spirit of the nether world. When the knight received the intelligence, he bitterly lamented the distance which prevented him from wreaking vengeance upon his presumptuous follower. The communicating spirit, either out of love for mischief, or from a private familiarity with sir Colin, promised to obviate this obstacle; and on the same day, before the bridal was celebrated, transported the chieftain in a blast of wind from Arragon to Glen Urcha. In what manner sir Colin proceeded, tradition does not say; it simply records, that the bridal was broken, but is silent upon the nature of the catastrophe. The legend is now almost entirely forgotten in the neighbourhood where its events are said to have taken place. “As far as I know,” says Mr. Allan, “it is confined to one old man, named Malcolm Mac Nab, who lives upon the hill of Barachastailan; he is between eighty and ninety years of age, and the last of the race of ancient smiths, who remains in the place of his ancestors. A few yards from his cottage there is the foundation of one of those ancient circular forts built by the Celts, and so frequently to be met in the Highlands: these structures are usually ascribed by the vulgar to Fion and his heroes. In a neighbouring field, called ‘Larich nam Fion,’ there were formerly two others of these buildings; their walls of uncemented stone were not many years since entire, to the height of eight or nine feet; but they have since been pulled down and carried away to repair the neighbouring cottages: it is from these buildings that the hill received its name of ‘Bar-a-chas-tailan,’ the ‘eminence of the castles.’”
The tide of centuries has rolled away
O’er Innishail’s solitary isle,
The wind of ages and the world’s decay
Has swept upon the Campbells’ fortress pile:
And far from what they were is changed the while
The monks’ grey cloister, and the baron’s keep.
I’ve seen the sun within the dungeon smile,
And in the bridal bower the ivy creep.
I’ve stood upon the fane’s foundation stone,
Heard the grass sigh upon the cloister’s heap,
And sat upon the holy cross o’erthrown,
And marked within the cell where warriors sleep,
Beneath the broad grey stone the timorous rabbit peep.
The legend of the dead is past away
As the dim eye amid the night doth fail.
The memorie of the fearful bridal day
Is parted from the people of the vale;
And none are left to tell the weary tale.
Save on yon lone green hill by Fion’s tower
Yet lives a man bowed down with age and ail:
Still tells he of the fearful legend’s hour—
It was his father fell within the bridal bower.
But though with man there is a weary waste.
It is not so beyond the mortal way;
With the unbodied spirits nought is spaced;
But when the aged world has worn away,
They look on earth where once their dwelling lay.
And to their never-closing eye doth show
All that has been—a fairie work of day;
And all which here their mortal life did show,
Yet lives in that which never may decay;
When thought, and life, and memorie below
Has sunk with all it bore of gladness or of woe.
At eventime on green Inchail’s isle
A dim grey form doth sit upon the hill:
No shadow casts it in the moonshine smile,
And in its folded mantle bowed and still
No feature e’er it showed the twilight chill,
But seems beneath its hood a void grey.
The owlet, when it comes, cries wild and shrill;
The moon grows dim when shows it in its ray,
None saw it e’er depart;—but it is not at day.
By Caölchairn at night when all is still,
And the black otter issues from his lair,
He hears a voice along the water chill,
It seems to speak amid the cloudy air;
But some have seen beyond the Donjon stair
Where now the floor from the wall is gone,
A form dim standing ’mid the ether fair,
No light upon its fixed eye there shone,
And yet the blood seems wet upon its bosom wan.
[226] Statistical Account, vol. viii. p. 347.