Chapter IV: Part 4

The wild career of this man seems to have originated in accident. Unintentionally he slew his cousin, one of the Ballindalloch family. The consequence was a fierce feud between the Grants of Ballindalloch and the Grants of Carron, and James, finding his enemies implacable, became lawless and desperate. In retaliation for his deeds of spoliation, Ballindalloch, hearing that John Grant of Carron, James’s brother, with a party of his men, was cutting timber in the forest of Abernethy, set upon them and slew the Laird of Carron, on the presumption that he aided the outlaw. The Earl of Murray, then Lord Lieutenant of the county, interposing to protect Ballindalloch, Seumas-an-Tuim vowed that he would avenge himself by his own hand. On the 3rd of December 1630, he came with a number of followers to Pitchas, the residence of Ballindalloch, burned his corn-yard, his barns, byres, and stables, with the cattle, horses, and sheep, driving away such as escaped the flames. Then he went with his men to Tulchin, the residence of old Ballindalloch, where he did in like manner, driving away as many of his cattle and horses as escaped the conflagration. Notwithstanding all this, he succeeded in eluding every attempt on the part of the Earl of Murray to capture him; who having failed in every effort to do so by force, had recourse to stratagem. Acting in accordance with the proverb of ‘setting a thief to catch a thief,’ he employed three ‘broken men,’ with whom he made a compact, offering handsome rewards should they succeed in bringing Seumas-an-Tuim into his hands dead or alive. The principal man of the three—a curious comment on the social condition of those times—was a brother of the Chief of the Clan Mackintosh. For a time they were unable to effect their purpose either by force or by stealth; such was the prowess, as well as the vigilance of Grant and his men. At length they managed to surprise him in a house at Achnakill, in Strathaven, where he happened to be, along with a party of ten men. Not expecting danger, and unprepared for resistance, James and his men betook themselves to flight. Mackintosh pursued him, slew four of his followers, and wounded James himself with arrows, inflicting eleven wounds. He was captured along with six of his men. The men were hanged. And as soon as his own wounds were cured he was conducted under safe guard to the Castle of Edinburgh; being, says Spalding in his quaint style, “admired and looked upon as a man of great vassalage.”

Here James remained a prisoner for a period of two years. It is related that an old neighbour of his, Grant of Tomavoulin, happened to pass one day under his prison window. James saw him, and asked, “What news from Speyside?” “None very particular,” was the answer; “the best news I have is, that the country is rid of you.” “Perhaps,” said James, “we shall meet again.” During his imprisonment he was permitted to see friends occasionally, who supplied him with something better than ordinary prison fare; and in a small cask, covered over with butter, his wife succeeded, on one of these occasions, in furnishing him with cord sufficient to enable him to effect his escape through his prison window. This was in October 1632. His son waited for him, and accompanied him in his flight; but for which he would have died by the way. In consequence of his confinement and other hardships, he lay for nine days in a wood near Denny, and thence made his way to his old haunts, where he lay concealed and inactive for a year. Meantime the Privy Council was greatly exasperated at his escape, and offered large rewards for his apprehension.

But the restless and daring man could not be idle; and now that his health was recovered and the vigilance of his enemies allayed, he again betook himself to his old schemes of revenge and depredation—‘partly travelling through the country, sometimes on Speyside, sometimes here, sometimes there, without fear or dread,’ but always having a sharp eye on his old enemy Ballindalloch. Ballindalloch, in self-defence, was obliged once more to attempt to set bounds to the attacks of James; and accordingly he hired a band of the outlawed Macgregors to do this job for him. These men were under the leadership of Patrick Dubh Gearr, a man little less famous for his exploits than Seumas-an-Tuim himself. James being at Carron one night with his son and an only servant, the Macgregors surrounded the house, while some of the party ascended the roof to uncover it and get at their victim. Grant hearing the noise, and finding himself beset by his enemies, resolved to defend the door, aided by his son and servant; and meantime made such good use of his arrows through the windows that the Macgregors were kept at bay. Patrick Gearr, bolder than his followers, venturing forward to force the door, Grant took aim at him with his gun and shot him through both legs, and in the confusion which followed the fall of their leader, James escaped through the roof and was once more beyond the reach of his pursuers. Gearr, it appears, died of his wounds, and Grant was lauded as a public benefactor. ‘Patrick Gearr was a notable thief, robber, and briganer, oppressing the people wherever he came,’ and therefore they rejoiced at his death.

Seumas-an-Tuim now resolved to fight Ballindalloch single-handed with his own weapons. Accordingly, while the latter was sitting quietly and unsuspiciously in his own house, on a dark December night, a messenger came to the door and told his servant that a well-known friend was waiting outside to speak to him. Ballindalloch at once responded and sallied forth to meet his friend (?). But no sooner was he outside than he was suddenly smothered in plaids by a party of unknown men—Seumas-an-Tuim and his followers—and hurried away in this helpless condition, over moss and moor, he knew not whither. They carried him in this miserable plight, all the way to the neighbourhood of Elgin, where they confined him in an old kiln, for three weeks, almost in a state of starvation. Eventually, and with great difficulty, Ballindalloch made his escape by the aid of one of his guards, whom he bribed to effect his release. Meantime, the Macgregors desolated the country with fire and sword in revenge for the death of their redoubtable leader Patrick Gearr. It was at this time that the famous outlaw Gilderoy, the well-known hero of tradition and song, came to the front. He succeeded to the leadership which became vacant by the death of Patrick.

The man who taunted Seumas-an-Tuim when imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle, was one Thomas Grant, a Speyside man. Nothing daunted by previous failures to capture James, he volunteered, at the request of Ballindalloch, to bring him dead or alive into his hands. This came to the ear of James. He went to Grant’s house at once, and not finding him, he gratified his revenge by killing sixteen of his cattle. Finding him shortly thereafter at the house of a friend, and in bed, he dragged him naked out of the house and dispatched him with many wounds, and so fulfilled his own prison vaticinations—“Perhaps we shall meet again.”

Notwithstanding the wild and lawless career of this man, living as he did in open defiance of law and order, and in the commission of all kinds of atrocities, he managed somehow to elude every effort made to bring him to justice. He even succeeded in obtaining a public remission of his crimes, and survived to take an active part in the troubles in which the country was involved during the Commonwealth. James, we suppose more from policy than principle, attached himself to the winning side, and had his services rewarded by receiving immunity for all his misdeeds.

What a contrast those times are to the times in which we live? It seems hardly credible that such lawless and atrocious deeds could be performed in the face of day, within so comparatively recent a period and amid scenes where peace and prosperity now reign paramount. Yet so it is; and with blood upon his hands, enough to have hanged scores of other men, Seumas-an-Tuim lived to a green old age, and died peaceably and quietly in his bed—the theme of story and song.

JOHN MACKAY.

Donald Mackay of Farr, a firm ally of, and related to, the Gordons, Earls of Sutherland, was through them brought under the notice of, and knighted by, James VI. in 1616. Afterwards, having raised, by licence of the King, a regiment of 3000 men, who left Cromarty in 1624, to assist Count Mansfield in his campaign in Germany, he was created a baronet.

Next year he was raised to the peerage, under the title of Lord Reay, when, with a number of other gentlemen from Ross, Sutherland, and Caithness, he served under Gustavus Adolphus in his campaigns for Protestantism. Lord Reay afterwards showed his attachment to royalty by taking up arms in defence of Charles I., for whose cause he brought from Denmark arms, ships, and a large sum of money.

Taken prisoner at Newcastle, he was confined in Edinburgh until after the battle of Kilsyth, when he was released, and shortly after he embarked from Thurso for Denmark, where he died.

He was succeeded by his second son John, who was married to a daughter of Scourie, said to have been a woman of great beauty, and of singularly fascinating manners. Brought up in the principles and opinions of his Royalist father, it was little to be wondered at that Lord Reay joined Glencairn in his rising for the King in 1654. When the Earl of Middleton took the command at Dornoch of the Royalist troops, by virtue of a commission from Charles II., thus superseding Glencairn, Lord Reay continued to serve under the new General till he was taken prisoner at Balveny, and conveyed to Edinburgh Tolbooth, where he remained during a lengthened period of the troubles of the Commonwealth, but at length effected his escape in the following manner:—

* * * * *

One autumn afternoon might be seen emerging from the gloomy doors of the Heart of Mid-Lothian—as the Tolbooth of Edinburgh was designated—two very remarkable forms. A lady, young and of wondrous beauty, her hair of that shade of which the poets of our land have so loved to sing—“a gowden yellow”—as seen by a few stray ringlets from beneath the plaid drawn over her head; her eyes, brilliantly blue, flashed in their glances of anxiety; her figure, straight and lithe as the lily stalk, and as she walked seemed to exhibit the very poetry of motion. Her attendant, a man of gigantic size, and stout in proportion, of fierce aspect, save when his glance fell upon his mistress, bore the Lochaber-axe, dirk, and sgian dubh—his arms, which he had just received back from the sentries or guards as he stepped into the street, and which he had left outside in order that he might be admitted to the prison. The contrast between the two was most marked, as was also the conversation. The lady was the wife of the Lord John Reay, the prisoner in the jail from which they had just stepped forth. The man was their trusty henchman, John Mackay, the favourite of his noble master and mistress, as much for his courage as for his fidelity and gentleness, and their pride in him as a clansman of enormous size and strength.

If Lady Reay was anxious, John was equally so—his eyes seemed to follow every glance of hers, like an attached hound seeking to anticipate the owner’s wish.

Looking round to John, who followed a few steps behind, while she seemed to hesitate in her progress, she said, as if half communing with herself, ‘I will go, and God be with me.’ ‘Surely, my lady, but where to?’ ‘I will see Cromwell—will entreat him, he may listen to me.’ ‘Surely, my lady, and what for no?’

And away went Lady Reay to endeavour to obtain an interview with Oliver Cromwell, then in Edinburgh at the head of the Parliamentary troops.

Access to Cromwell was a difficult matter, but Lady Reay was fortunate in obtaining an introduction through an intimate friend. As she was presented, Cromwell, in his usual abrupt manner, was in the act of turning away, when her ladyship fell on her knees at his feet, and, catching the skirts of his coat, poured forth in heart-breaking, agonised supplications her entreaties for her husband’s release. Struck by her deportment, her beauty, and her language, he listened, and finally, overcome by her supplication, said he would willingly do all in his power to serve her, and restore her husband to her; but as Lord Reay was a State prisoner, the Committee of Estates could alone discharge him from custody.

On hearing his decision, she became so affected that Cromwell at last declared to her that if she could by any means get her husband out of ward, he would grant him a protection to prevent his further molestation. This protection he wrote and handed to her ladyship, who retired with heightened hopes, springing she knew not what from.

When she left the lodgings of Cromwell, she glanced hastily round for her henchman, who in an instant was by her side. ‘Aweel, my lady,’ said John, ‘what will the bodach do?’ ‘He will do nothing, John; but he has given me this pass, which would be all that would be required if we only could get his lordship outside the prison walls, and that, I fear, is impossible.’

‘Prut, my lady, ilka thing is possible.’

‘But how will it be done, John?’

‘Ah, it’s easy durkin’ the turnkey body inside, and the twa sentries at the door.’

‘Ah, John, John, we must have no blood, and still less murder, whatever happen; besides, you yourself would suffer death.’

‘Aweel, that’s little for Mackay’s sake.’

‘Promise me, John, that not a hair of these men’s heads shall be hurt, whatever we attempt; remember they are only doing their duty. Promise me.’ And John promised.

Lady Reay and her servant had free access to his lordship at all times. Outside the prison door was a wicket, guarded within by a turnkey, who generally lolled against it, or rested himself upon a form beside.

Outside the main door were two sentries placed as guards, who either crossed each other in their steady walk, or stood at ease, one on each side of the doorway. As Lady Reay was a favourite with the turnkey, on account of the politeness which she daily showed him, he did not think it necessary to lock his lordship’s cell during the time of her ladyship’s visit, and at last got into the habit of allowing his lordship to accompany Lady Reay till she passed through the wicket, on her leaving for the night.

On the day following her visit to Cromwell, Lord Reay, as usual, accompanied her ladyship, and while she was stepping beyond the wicket, he suddenly laid hold of the turnkey, and, laying him down in the passage, placed the form above him, seized his keys, and passing through the wicket locked him in. The lady having effected her part so far, of which John was perfectly aware by sound, though he could not turn round to see, he at once seized the sentries, one in each hand, and laying one down, placed the other above him, kicking their arms to a distance, while Lord Reay sprang over them and rushed down the street. Addressing the soldiers, who had ceased to struggle in the grip of their powerful opponent, he said—‘Now, lads, you will just be good and be quiet, or if you no be quiet, I will just have to shake your pickle brains out of their pans, and so you’ll see what you shall see; but if you are good, I’ll give myself quietly up to be put into the jail instead of his lordship.’

John accordingly surrendered himself, and, loaded with irons, was lodged in the Tolbooth.

In due time he was brought to trial for aiding the escape of a State prisoner, and Cromwell was present as President. Said he—‘There is no doubt that the servant has duly forfeited his life, but his conduct and fidelity, which went to release his master, and perhaps have saved his life, were of so high a character, and so heroic, that if this man were put to death for qualities so valuable and so commendable, and particularly seeing that nothing hurtful resulted to the State from his doings, it would discourage every faithful servant from doing his duty. I therefore propose that, for the sake of justice, John Mackay, the prisoner at the bar, shall be condemned to death; but that, under the circumstances of the case, the punishment shall be remitted, and Mackay shall leave the bar a free man.’

During the time that John Mackay was digesting the speech of Cromwell, the latter was taking a steady look of the former, when he exclaimed to those around him, while he remarked Mackay’s fierce aspect and athletic form—‘May I ever be kept from the devil’s and that man’s grasp.’ On the other hand, John’s remark on Cromwell, whom he had as carefully noticed, was—‘The deil’s no sae doure as he’s ca’ed.’

THE CUMMINGS OF BADENOCH.

The Cummings were always a turbulent and haughty race, who for many generations inhabited the wilds of Strathspey and Badenoch. One of them upon a time claimed the throne of Scotland; and the deceitful wretch, who, after having entered into a mutual bond with Robert the Bruce (the great deliverer of Scotland from English oppression and tyranny, and who for ever established the independence of his country), for the deliverance of their common country, betrayed him to Edward. Bruce, however, managed to get away from the English court, and meeting the deceitful Cumming in the church of the Grey Friars in Dumfries, on the 10th of February 1305, a warm altercation took place, in the course of which Bruce charged the Comyn, as he was called, with treachery to himself and his country. The Comyn returned an insulting answer, when Bruce instantly stabbed him with his dagger on the steps of the high altar. The Cummings and the Shaws were always at feud with each other, the latter, being the weaker, at least in point of numbers, always getting the worst of it; and on one occasion their chief was murdered by their inveterate enemies and oppressors, the Cummings. A general slaughter took place at this particular period; but Shaw’s only child, a boy of only a few months old, escaped, he having fallen into the hands of a devoted female dependent of the family, who, to secure him from danger and to avoid the general carnage, made off across hills and mountains, through moors and forests, to the residence of the laird of Strathardale in the Highlands of Perthshire, whom she knew as an old and trusted friend of her late chief. She arrived, after much fatigue and many hardships, at the ‘Baron’s’ residence; informed him of the cruel fate of her late master, and the flower of his clan; how she escaped with her precious charge, and entreated Strathardale, for the love he bore the late Rothiemurchus, and the long and intimate friendship which had existed between them, to take charge of his youthful son, and save him from the savage clutches of the Cummings. Matters were soon arranged to the satisfaction of both parties, and the faithful woman went home quite satisfied that the youth would be well attended to, and brought up among Strathardale’s own children, as befitted the rightful and youthful heir of Rothiemurchus.

She returned to her own country in due time, found all her old acquaintances and friends slaughtered or trampled upon, and scourged by the blood-thirsty and cruel Cummings; all the ancient possessions of the Shaws ruled by and, apparently, in the everlasting possession of the inveterate enemies of her kith and kin. Years and days passed away, and those days and years added growth and vigour to the young heir, who, until he attained to years of discretion, was carefully kept in the dark as to the real and true nature of his birthright. When at last it was revealed to him, his whole soul seemed to have been roused, and he determined to spend his whole time and all the energies of his body and mind to prepare and carry out a scheme for the recovery of his ancient patrimony, to contest his claim with the proud and haughty house of Cumming, and avenge the cruel murder of his father and kinsmen.

In due time young Shaw decided upon paying a visit to his native district to ascertain the real state of matters, and if possible to wrench from his enemies the heritage which they had so long and so unjustly possessed. Arriving at Rothiemurchus, after a most perilous journey and escorted by a strong body of followers, he lost no time in calling upon his benefactor, Janet Shaw, whose history, antecedents, and devoted conduct to himself in his early days he had learnt from his Perthshire protector. He was directed to her lonely cottage, the door of which he found strongly bolted from the inside. He at once announced himself and begged to be admitted, but his voice was quite strange to Janet’s ear. No amount of entreaty or persuasion would induce her to unbolt the door until she had satisfactory proof that she was not being deceived; for poor Janet had good reason to have little faith in her surroundings. She could not bring herself to believe that her old protégé could be so foolhardy as to appear in the district among the sworn enemies of his race. Shaw, however, continued to insist upon his individuality, and at last Janet told him to exhale his breath through the keyhole and she would thus soon satisfy herself as to his identity. Doubting this singular and delicate mode of recognition on the part of Janet, Shaw requested one of his attendants to supply his place in the first experiment. This done Janet at once firmly and sternly resented the attempt made to deceive her by one who, she said, must be an enemy trying to secure an entrance to her place of abode with no good intention, and told him ‘Bi falbh, bi falbh, a chealgaire, cha’n eil gaoth t’ainealach ach fuaraidh an aite anail mhilis, bhlasda leanaban mo ghaoil’ (Be off, be off, deceitful wretch, the odour of your breath is but cold in comparison with the sweet and savoury breath of my own beloved child). Shaw could no longer trifle with the feelings of one whom he discovered had still continued to take such an interest in him, and he felt vexed that he had acted in, what might be construed by Janet, such a heartless manner. He asked her to give him another chance to meet her in her own way, explained the hoax to her, breathed through the keyhole himself, satisfied the devoted Janet that he was really ‘her own beloved child,’ when, with an exclamation of joy, she unbolted and threw open the door, warmly saluted and received him in her arms, and bedewed him with tears of affection. For the moment his manhood failed him, and the two wept—it is difficult to decide whether most in consequence of the vivid recollections brought up of misfortune and misery in the past, or from a spontaneous outburst of joy in meeting one another in such peculiar circumstances, after such a long, and as Janet believed, permanent separation.

Young Shaw, however, soon recovered himself, and after mutual congratulations and various references and inquiries as to the past lives and adventures of each other, he learnt from Janet that all the male Cummings were away on a foraging expedition in the south, and that they were expected to return with the creach on the following day. This was considered a most favourable and opportune circumstance, and one which must be taken advantage of without hesitation or delay. Shaw at once decided to intercept them on their way home and extinguish them root and branch or perish in the attempt. He and his trusted followers passed a sleepless night in Janet’s cottage. To satisfy their hunger she insisted upon having her only cow slaughtered at once. This was done, and it was soon roasted before a blazing fire of peat and moss fir. No effort was spared on Janet’s part to make them as comfortable as possible, no doubt naturally feeling that if her favourite was successful in his desperate enterprise she would be well provided for during the remainder of her days.

The rest of the night was spent by Shaw and his plucky companions sorting their arms and arranging their dispositions for the following morning. They started before the break of day, and took a secluded position on the Callort Hill, at the eastern extremity of Rothiemurchus, situated between two roads leading from Strathspey. They exultingly felt that they had the Cummings in the immediate grasp of their inveterate vengeance, and sure of their ability to complete their utter destruction and annihilation. Old Janet, who accompanied Shaw and his friends, recommended this as the best and most convenient spot from which to attack the enemy, as they were sure to return by that route, and she was determined to take a part in the fortunes of war herself; for, she said, if the day went against them, it was certain death for her, whether she followed them and shared their danger or stopped at home in her lonely cottage. She then ascended a neighbouring hill, which commanded a good view of the two roads, by one of which the Cummings must return. Janet was soon on the top, and after a period of watchful suspense, descried the enemy slowly advancing straight upon the very spot where Shaw and his followers lay in ambush. She immediately gave the alarm by a pre-arranged signal, the watchword being—‘Tha na gobhair anns a Challort’ (The goats are in the Callort). Shaw and his companions immediately prepared for the mortal combat, in which he was to secure the patrimony of his race or die in the attempt. Like a horde of hungry wolves falling on their innocent and defenceless prey, Shaw and his companions fell on the first batch of their astonished and unprepared victims, and felled them to the ground like mown grass. They were travelling in detached companies, each party driving a separate lot of cattle lifted from the Southron, and as each party came up, ignorant of the fate of the preceding one, they were soon dispatched by the infuriated and successful Shaws; not a Cumming was allowed to escape. They were all buried on the spot, which is to this day called Lag-nan-Cuimeanach, or the Hollow of the Cummings. ‘The green grassy mounds which, after the lapse of centuries, overtop the heather at this scene of blood-thirsty vengeance, mark the resting place and commemorate the overthrow of one of the most savage races that ever existed in the Highlands of Scotland.’

After this desperate and successful encounter with the Cummings no serious difficulties presented themselves against Shaw taking possession of the estate and property of his predecessors. His kinsmen and friends, who so long writhed under the oppressive yoke of the hated enemy, now rallied round their young and rightful chief with alacrity and unmistakable signs of delight. It was not long, however, before matters took another and an ugly turn. Shaw’s mother survived the general massacre and ruin of the clan when the Cummings took possession, and matters had so far prospered with her, still residing in the district, that during the minority and absence of her son she again entered the matrimonial state with a “Southron,” whose name was Dallas. Young Shaw had so far condoned this step on his mother’s part, considering the straitened circumstances in which she was left, that he not only forgave her, but invited herself and her husband to reside with him in his mansion of Doune. Matters continued pleasantly and smoothly for a time, but, as usual in such cases, after a while some disagreeable and discordant elements began to manifest themselves, and the youth was too proud and haughty in spirit to conceal his increasing ill-will and animosity towards his stepfather. On a certain occasion, among a large company of their friends, this disagreeable feeling found vent, when unpleasant remarks were given expression to on both sides. Shaw looked daggers, but held his hand until on his way home, at a lonely and secluded spot, he suddenly drew forth his dagger, and with little or no preliminary ceremonial dispatched his stepfather by stabbing him to the heart. The place is known to this day as Lag-an-Dalaisich. Not satisfied with this brutal and murderous deed, he severed the head from the body, and carrying the bloody trophy to his mother, stuck on the point of his dagger, on arriving at home, he threw it at her, tauntingly exclaiming, “There it is for you, take it, the head of your blackguard and detested husband.”

The state of the poor woman’s feelings at the sight of such a horrid spectacle, brought about by the hand of her own offspring, cannot be described. She cursed him loudly for the unnatural part he had acted. The keenest resentment was aroused in her breast, and she determined to use every means in her power to have him punished for his cruel and detestable conduct. She urged upon every one whom she could influence, and who had any influence in the district, to stir up and rouse the vigilance of the law, feeble as it then was in such an out-of-the-way place. She unceasingly impressed upon everyone the detestable nature and enormity of the crime her son had been guilty of, and the great injustice he had inflicted upon herself. The result was that young Shaw was soon proclaimed an outlaw, and his whole property, rights, and possessions reverted to the Crown. He soon after died broken-hearted, despised by friends and foes alike; and his heritage has continued since to be the property of the ‘Lairds of Grant,’ who, for a mere nominal sum, bought the forfeiture from the Crown.

GLENGARRY AND HIS FAVOURITE.

Many ages ago, when a powerful but capricious chief of Glengarry was erecting the venerable and stern mansion, whose ruins still arrest the stranger’s eye, he very injudiciously chose his companion and favourite from the humblest class of his retainers; and this one, like the generality of favourites once corrupted by a superior’s improper familiarity, soon forgot prudence and propriety. One day, when the castle’s infant walls had just upreared their massy front over their foundation, and while their warlike founder, in company with another chief, was superintending and admiring the progress of the building, up came the favourite with the greatest air of confidence, and without even saluting, as was then customary, his lord and chief, the dread possessor of unlimited feudal power, accosted him thus, in the presence of a recently conciliated rival—‘Alas! poor chief, know ye what the M’Bhethains say? They call you miser, and inquire, how comes it that you could not spare a little silver and gold to be placed in thy castle’s foundation, as is customary with other chiefs? Your present companion, they say,’ alluding to the chief already noticed, ‘has as much silver in the foundation of his castle as would buy yours.’ At this the stranger sneered with fiendish pleasure, seeing him whose friendship fear, not love, prompted him to court, but whom he fervently hated at heart, so much insulted by his own vassal. The chief himself was too severely stung—his rage was too gigantic—to stoop to instantaneous revenge: besides, it was derogatory for a chief to inflict personal chastisement on a vassal, and impracticable to do so in presence of another chief; but his brow was clouded, and his face was darkened as he spoke, until, recollecting himself, he smothered up his rage, and, endeavouring to assume an appearance of cheerfulness, he exclaimed—‘You are right Raonuil, I have quite omitted to do what you remind me of, I therefore thank you for the hint, and, believe me, I allow you more merit, from a conviction that I am not directly or indirectly beholden to those you mention for the suggestion, as it is not their own custom to do the like; however, it should be done, and, with your assistance, we will correct the omission to-night.’ The vassal retired chuckling, at what he considered the effect of his influence. It is impossible to discover the cause which had prompted him to talk so insultingly to his lord and master: some attribute it to the disappointment of dishonest expectations, supposing that he intended to abstract any jewellery which might be deposited as a memento in the foundation; while others imagine that his chief must have previously offended him, and that the insult was intended; but more probably his main object was to ingratiate himself with the stranger.

M’Raonuil lived in a small solitary cottage, a considerable distance from the residence of his chief, and, late on the night in question, he was startled in his slumbers by a loud knocking at his door; he arose trembling, with a secret dread of something unknown, and shuddered involuntarily as he opened his door to discover the cause of this disturbance. He opened it, and lo! there stood his chief, alone, with a naked dagger in one hand, and a dark lantern in the other, frowning like a spirit of vengeance. The frightened vassal at this terrific sight quickly sank on his bended knee to implore his chieftain’s grace and mercy, his heart bursting with remorse and sorrow, but the ear of vengeance would not listen to the importunities of remorse, nor to the supplicating sighs of fear. ‘Come,’ said the stern and angry chief, ‘arise, shake off that ague fit and follow me, for I require your service!’ To disobey the chief was a crime unknown and unheard of in those days, and his peremptory command and determined appearance showed the vassal that remonstrance or question was vain and futile; so with a tremulous hand he arrayed himself in his best apparel, and with a bursting and yearning heart—

He bade his wife and children dear,
A long, a last adieu,

and mournfully prepared to follow his chief. They sallied forth in silence and in gloom, the doomed man (for he knew his fate was sealed), marched sullenly behind. Neither seemed inclined to disturb the drowsy stillness which reigned around them; and as they marched along, the owl’s screech voice assailed the vassal’s ear, proclaiming the ominous words, ‘man prepare to die,’ and ever and anon, when the glare of the chief’s dim lantern gleamed upon him, it exhibited to the unhappy victim the diabolical smile which grinned on his chief’s countenance at the proximity of such a feast of vengeance. At length they reached the castle, in the deep silence of midnight! where the chief, pointing to a gloomy excavation which he had caused that night to be made in its foundation, desired his vassal to enter, which, without the least hesitation, he did, mourning as he went, and wringing his hands in utter grief. As soon as he entered he saw the muscular chief with great difficulty roll a ponderous stone over the mouth of his dim and dreary sepulchre, and heard him chanting to himself, as in mockery, the M’Raonuil’s dirge; but these cheerless sounds soon grew faint and ultimately died away.

The chief now quitted the castle, intending to drown all thoughts of its forlorn captive, amidst the riot and luxurious turbulence which a chieftain’s life afforded, but he found himself mistaken. The foul deed he had that night performed made a deep and indelible impression on his mind, and go where he would he wandered like a forlorn outcast, changed, dejected, and thoughtful.

Wherever he roamed his weeping captive came trembling to his mind. If awake, it was of him, and him only, that he thought, and if asleep, he dreamed only of him, and, often in the deep stillness of night, a sullen voice whispered in his ear—‘the heavy punishment you have inflicted on your clansman is too severe for the venal crime he committed, therefore you cannot expect to fight victoriously under such a load of guilt.’

It happened that at this time the chief was about to enter into a struggle with an aggressive and powerful neighbour, and on the result of this combat depended his own and clansmen’s lives. Their antagonists were far superior in point of number, and were warriors renowned for their wonderful exploits—for fearlessness, daring, and courage; but they were a ruthless and relentless enemy, and whatever they vanquished they utterly destroyed. They seemed to fight not for any chivalrous honour, but rather from the devilish pleasure they had in reducing to ashes that which other men took months and years to build. In short, these spoilers took great umbrage at the chief of Glengarry, which meant certain destruction, unless he could defeat them in arms, and so he, in desperation, determined, as his only chance of safety, to hazard a battle. Yes! he would have a struggle, a fierce and furious struggle, ere he sank beneath the iron hand of a despotic rival: and if he did fall, he, like the dying lion, would wound the earth in his throes. He would not bleed like the bleating lamb, nor would he imitate the timid hind, and seek safety by flight! No! he had fangs like the wolf, and with these he would tear the flesh from the bones of his oppressor.

On the tenth day after the captivity of his late favourite, he had his clan marshalled and under arms, awaiting the approach of the foe whom he had challenged to meet him there, to settle their dispute by open combat. His warriors were all burning for distinction in the field, but none more ardently than himself, and as he glanced proudly along their line he smiled on hearing them curse the lazy foe, who lagged so tardily on their way to meet him. This was in the vicinity of the rising castle, and as he wished to enter the fight as guiltless as possible, it struck him that he had better relieve himself, if possible, from the guilt of his prisoner’s undeserved misery, and to effect this purpose, he stole unperceived to the vault, and with the assistance of a common plank, used as a lever, he soon raised up the huge stone, and having placed a sufficient counterpoise to preserve the entrance, he entered, but scarcely had he done so when snap went the lever, and down came the stone with a tremendous force. In an instant he perceived the fearful calamity which had befallen him. He knew that all was now over, for it was impossible to remove the stone, from the interior of the vault; and, in terrible despair, he sat, or threw himself down, writhing with extreme mental agony. To make his misery greater he heard (or thought he heard) his trusty clansmen expressing their amazement at his unexpected and cowardly desertion, and heard (or thought he heard) the sentinels, whom he himself had placed, proclaim with extended lungs—‘The foe! they come! they come!’ Then he heard the din of war on the heath, and the shock of battle sound, ‘like a crash of echoing thunder,’ and then the shout triumphant of his foes—and oh! he would have given his very soul’s redemption for power to arise from that murky dungeon and stalk to the midst of the combat like an angel of death—

And perish if it must be so,
At bay destroying many a foe.

When the sounds of strife and every hope had died away, the shout triumphant, and the dying yells, he thought on the lone sharer of his captivity, whom he could discover was still alive, and he wondered that the soul, ever eager as an iron bound prisoner to escape, should be enticed by such misery to linger—for his part he would rather flutter like the butterfly through its sweet though short career, than live, like the toad, a thousand years prisoner to a marble block. As he mused thus in painful silence his deliverers arrived. They were his victorious foes—and those of his own clan who had survived the field of battle—the little remnant who had but now given his little band like chaff to the four warring winds of the earth. They came in quest of riches, which they supposed had been deposited in the vault. The stone was rolled away, and one by one they dropped into the vault, but each as he entered, fell a victim to the fury of its angry and exasperated inmate, who shortly afterwards, with the aid of his old favourite vassal, quitted its gloomy precincts, leaving his enemy and his laurels there to wither and to die.

CASTLE URQUHART AND THE FUGITIVE LOVERS.

Glen-Urquhart, where Castle Urquhart is situated, is one of the most beautiful of our Highland valleys, distant from Inverness some fourteen miles, and expands first from the waters of Loch-Ness into a semi-circular plain, divided into fields by hedgerows, and having its hill-sides beautifully diversified by woods and cultivated grounds. The valley then runs upwards some ten miles to Corriemonie, through a tract of haugh-land beautifully cultivated, and leading to a rocky pass or gorge half-way upwards or thereabouts, which, on turning, an inland valley, as it were, is attained, almost circular, and containing Loch-Meiglie, a beautiful small sheet of water, the edges of which are studded with houses, green lawns, and cultivated grounds. Over a heathy ridge beyond these, two or three miles, we reach the flat of Corriemonie, adorned by some very large ash and beech trees, where the land is highly cultivated, at an elevation of eight or nine hundred feet above, and twenty-five miles distant from, the sea. At the base of Mealfourvonie, a small circular lake, of a few acres in extent, exists, which was once thought to be unfathomable, and to have a subterranean communication with Loch-Ness. From it flows the Aultsigh Burn, a streamlet which, tumbling down a rocky channel, at the base of one of the grandest frontlets of rock in the Highlands, nearly fifteen hundred feet high, empties itself into Loch-Ness within three miles of Glenmoriston. Besides the magnificent and rocky scenery to be seen in the course of this burn, it displays, at its mouth, an unusually beautiful waterfall, and another about two miles further up, shaded with foliage of the richest colour. A tributary of the Coiltie, called the Dhivach, amid beautiful and dense groves of birch, displays a waterfall as high and picturesque as that of Foyers; and near the source of the Enneric River, which flows from Corriemonie into the still waters of Loch-Meiglie, another small, though highly picturesque cascade, called the Fall of Moral, is to be seen. Near it is a cave large enough to receive sixteen or twenty persons. Several of the principal gentlemen of the district concealed themselves here from the Hanoverian troops during the troubles of the ’45.

On the southern promontory of Urquhart Bay are the ruins of the Castle, rising over the dark waters of the Loch, which, off this point, is 125 fathoms in depth. The castle has the appearance of having been a strong and extensive building. The mouldings of the corbel table which remain are as sharp as on the day they were first carved, and indicate a date about the beginning of the 14th century. The antiquary will notice a peculiar arrangement in the windows, for pouring molten lead on the heads of the assailants. It overhangs the lake, and is built on a detached rock separated from the adjoining hill, at the base of which it lies, by a moat of about twenty-five feet deep and sixteen feet broad. The rock is crowned by the remains of a high wall or curtain, surrounding the building, the principal part of which, a strong square keep of three storeys, is still standing, surmounted by four square hanging turrets. This outward wall encloses a spacious yard, and is in some places terraced. In the angles were platforms for the convenience of the defending soldiery. The entrance was by a spacious gateway between two guard rooms, projected beyond the general line of the walls, and was guarded by more than one massive portal and huge portcullis to make security doubly sure. These entrance towers were much in the style of architecture peculiar to the Castles of Edward I. of England, and in front of them lay the drawbridge across the outer moat. The whole works were extensive and strong, and the masonry was better finished than is common in the generality of Scottish strongholds.

The first siege Urquhart Castle is known to have sustained was in the year 1303, when it was taken by the officers of Edward I. who were sent forward by him, to subdue the country, from Kildrummie, near Nairn, beyond which he did not advance in person, and of all the strongholds in the North, it was that which longest resisted his arms.

Alexander de Bois, the brave governor, and his garrison, were put to the sword. Sir Robert Lauder of Quarrelwood, in Morayshire, governor of the Castle in A.D. 1332, maintained it against the Baliol faction. His daughter, marrying the Earl of Strathglass, the offspring of their union, Sir Robert Chisholm of that Ilk, became Laird of Quarrelwood in right of his grandfather. After this period it is known to have been a Royal fort or garrison; but it is very likely it was so also at the commencement of the 14th century, and existed as such in the reigns of the Alexanders and other Scottish sovereigns, and formed one of a chain of fortresses erected for national defence, and for insuring internal peace. In 1359 the barony and the Castle of Urquhart were disponed by David II. to William, Earl of Sutherland, and his son John. In 1509 it fell into the hands of the chief of the Clan Grant, and in that family’s possession it has continued to this day.

How it came into the possession of John Grant, the 10th Laird, surnamed the ‘Bard,’ is not known; but it was not won by the broadsword, from Huntly, the Lieutenant-General of the King. It has been the boast of the chiefs of the Clan Grant that no dark deeds of rapine and blood have been transmitted to posterity by any of their race. Their history is unique among Highland clans, in that, down to the period of the disarming after Culloden, the broadswords of the Grants were as spotless as a lady’s bodkin. True it is, there were some dark deeds enacted between the Grants of Carron and Ballindalloch, and at the battles of Cromdale and Culloden the Grants of Glenmoriston were present; but far otherwise was the boast of the Grants of Strathspey—a gifted ancestry seemed to transmit hereditary virtues, and each successive scion of the house seemed to emulate the peaceful habits of his predecessor. That this amiable life did not conceal craven hearts is abundantly evident from the history of our country. There is a continual record of gallant deeds and noble bearing in their records down to the present time, and there are few families whose names, like the Napiers and the Grants, are more conspicuous in our military annals. But their rise into a powerful clan was due to the more peaceful gifts, of ‘fortunate alliances’ and ‘royal bounties.’

It is much to be regretted that so little has been transmitted to posterity of the history of this splendid ruin of Castle Urquhart.

The probability is that it is connected with many a dark event over which the turbulence of the intervening period and the obscurity of its situation have cast a shade of oblivion.