Chapter V: Part 5

The most prominent part of the present mass, the fine square tower at the north-eastern extremity of the building, is supposed to have been the keep, and is still pretty entire. From this point, the view is superb. It commands Loch-Ness from one end to the other, and is an object on which the traveller fixes an admiring gaze as the steamer paddles her merry way along the mountain-shadowed water. On a calm day the dashing echo of the Fall of Foyers bursts fitfully across the Loch, and when the meridian sun lights up the green earth after a midsummer shower, a glimpse of the distant cataract may be occasionally caught, slipping like a gloriously spangled avalanche to the dark depths below. The story in which the castle was the principal scene of action is quite characteristic of the times referred to. A gentleman of rank, who had been out with the Prince and had been wounded at Culloden, found himself on the evening of that disastrous day on the banks of the River Farigaig, opposite Urquhart Castle. He had been helped so far by two faithful retainers, one of whom, a fox-hunter, was a native of the vale of Urquhart. This man, perceiving the gentleman was unable to proceed further, and seeing a boat moored to the shore, proposed that they should cross to the old Castle, in a vault of which, known only to a few of the country people, they might remain secure from all pursuit. The hint was readily complied with, and in less than a couple of hours they found themselves entombed in the ruins of Urquhart Castle, where sleep shortly over-powered them, and the sun was high in the heavens next day ere any of them awoke. The gentleman’s wound having been partially dressed, the fox-hunter’s comrade yawningly observed ‘that a bit of something to eat would be a Godsend.’ ‘By my troth it would,’ said the fox-hunter, ‘and if my little Mary knew aught of poor Eoghainn Brocair’s (Ewan the fox-hunter) plight, she would endeavour to relieve him though Sassenach bullets were flying about her ears.’ ‘By heaven! our lurking-place is discovered!’ whispered the gentleman, ‘do you not observe a shadow hovering about the entrance.’ ’Tis the shadow of a friend,’ replied the Brocair; and in an instant a long-bodied, short-legged Highland terrier sprung into the vault. ‘Craicean, a dhuine bhochd,’ said the overjoyed fox-hunter, hugging the faithful animal to his bosom, ‘this is the kindest visit you ever paid me.’ As soon as the shades of evening had darkened their retreat, Eoghainn untied his garter, and binding it round the dog’s neck, caressed him, and pointing up the Glen, bade him go and bring the Brocair some food. The poor terrier looked wistfully in his face, and with a shake of his tail, quietly took his departure. In about four hours ‘Craicean’ reappeared, and endeavoured by every imaginable sign to make Eoghainn follow him outside. With this the Brocair complied, but in a few seconds he re-entered, accompanied by another person. Eoghainn having covered the only entrance to the cave with their plaids, struck a light and introduced to his astonished friends his betrothed, young Mary Maclauchlan. The poor girl had understood by the garter which bound the terrier’s neck, and which she herself had woven, that her Eoghainn was in the neighbourhood, and hastened to his relief with all the ready provisions she could procure; and not least, in the estimation of at least two of the fugitives, the feeling maiden had brought them a sip of unblemished whisky. In this manner they had been supplied with aliment for some time, when one night their fair visitor failed to come as usual. This, though it created no immediate alarm, somewhat astonished them; but when the second night came and neither Mary nor her shaggy companion appeared, Eoghainn’s uneasiness on Mary’s account overcame every other feeling, and, in spite of all remonstrance, he ventured forth to ascertain the cause of her delay. The night was dark and squally, and Eoghainn was proceeding up his native glen like one who felt that the very sound of his tread might betray him to death. With a beating heart he had walked upwards of two miles, when his ears were saluted with the distant report of a musket. Springing aside, he concealed himself in a thicket which overhung the river. Here he remained but a very short time when he was joined by the Craicean dragging after him a cord several yards in length. This circumstance brought the cold sweat from the brow of the Brocair. He knew that their enemies were in pursuit of them, that the cord had been affixed to the dog’s neck in order that he might lead to their place of concealment; and alas! Eoghainn feared much that his betrothed was at the mercy of his pursuers. What was to be done? The moment was big with fate, but he was determined to meet it like a man. Cutting the cord and whispering to the terrier, “cul mo chois” (back of my heel) he again ventured to the road and moved warily onward. On arriving at an old wicker-wrought barn, he saw a light streaming from it, when creeping towards it, he observed a party of the enemy surrounding poor Mary Maclauchlan, who was, at the moment, undergoing a close examination by their officer. ‘Come girl,’ said he ‘though that blind rascal has let your dog, who would certainly have introduced us to the rebels, escape, you will surely consult your own safety by guiding me to the spot; nay, I know you will, here is my purse in token of my future friendship, and in order to conceal your share in the transaction you and I shall walk together to a place where you may point me out the lurking place of these fellows, and leave the rest to me; and do you,’ continued he, turning to his party, ‘remain all ready until you hear a whistle, when instantly make for the spot.’ The Brocair crouched, as many a time he did, but never before did his heart beat at such a rate. As the officer and his passive guide took the road to the old Castle, Eoghainn followed close in their wake, and, when they had proceeded about a mile from the barn, they came upon the old hill road when Mary made a dead halt, as if quite at a loss how to act. ‘Proceed, girl,’ thundered the officer, ‘I care not one farthing for my own life, and if you do not instantly conduct me to the spot where the bloody rebels are concealed, this weapon,’ drawing his sword, ‘shall within two minutes penetrate your cunning heart.’ The poor girl trembled and staggered as the officer pointed the sword at her bosom, when the voice of Eoghainn fell on his ear like the knell of death, ‘Turn your weapon this way, brave sir’, said the Brocair, ‘Turn it this way,’ and in a moment the officer and his shivered sword lay at his feet. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ screamed the fainting girl, ‘meddle not with his life.’ ‘No, no, Mary; I shall not dirty my hands in his blood. I have only given him the weight of my oak sapling, so that he may sleep soundly till we are safe from the fangs of his bloodhounds.’ That very night the fugitives left Urquhart Castle and got safe to the forests of Badenoch, where they skulked about with Lochiel and his few followers until the gentleman escaped to France, when Eoghainn Brocair and his companion ventured once more, as they themselves expressed it, ‘to the communion of Christians.’ The offspring of the Brocair and Mary Maclauchlan are still in Lochaber.

THE FAIRIES AND DONALD DUAGHAL MACKAY.

Mankind in all ages have been prone to superstitious beliefs and hero-worship. The most enlightened nations of ancient or modern times have not been more exempt from them than the most ignorant. The ancient Chaldeans, Babylonians, and Egyptians were grossly superstitious, believing in magic, omens, and dreams. The Jews possessing intimate knowledge of a Supreme Being, universally ruling, were not free from similar practices acquired during their four hundred years contact with the Egyptians while sojourning on the banks of the Nile. The Greeks and Romans were not a whit better; they deified their heroes, put faith in oracles, divinations and dreams. They imagined that bees, ants, and various birds, beasts, and reptiles had the power of giving omens of good or bad fortune. They had gods celestial and gods terrestrial, and subterranean gods. The appearance of eclipses and comets were to them ominous of public disasters. The Scandinavians had their own fanciful mythology, their Odens, their Thors, their Balders, their Niords, their Triggas, and their Treyas, and a vast dread of the Elfin, Dwarf, and Great tribes. The Anglo-Saxon, in common with the Scandinavian, believed in these deities, and in others peculiar to the Goths. They had idols emblematical of the sun, moon, earth, and the various seasons. The Easter festivals of the Christian Church are supposed to have been derived from the name of the Anglo-Saxon goddess Eastre, to whom they made sacrifices in the month of April. The burning of the log of wood in December was a sacrifice to the sun, as an emblem of returning light, the days then beginning to lengthen; and from this ancient practice may be traced the custom of burning the yule log at Christmas, a practice still common, I believe, in parts of England. They had also their beliefs in giants, elfs, and dwarfs, which haunted the fields, woods, mountains, rivers, and lakes, alike in character to the demi-gods and other imaginary spirits of the Grecian and Roman superstitions; but worse still, to the Anglo-Saxon is ascribed the introduction to England and Scotland of the more dangerous doctrine of witchcraft and divinations, before which the reasoning power of the people quailed, and all intellectual advancement was impeded.

The Celts are credited with originating the fairy superstition, though it is unknown from what cause. In Scotland and other countries in which Celtic traditions predominate, the fairies were regarded on the whole as little given to malevolence; on the contrary, ready to help mankind at times, though when offended they exhibited an admixture of the malignant spirit of the elf and the dwarf of the Scandinavian, who introduced the belief in them to the Celts. Most spirits were supposed to have the attribute of enlarging or contracting their bulk at will; the fairy alone was regarded as essentially diminutive in size, the miniature of a human being, perfect in form, clad in pure green, brilliant and rich beyond conception, inhabiting subterranean palaces of indescribable splendour, and innumerable in numbers. They were represented as continually feasting, dancing, and making merry, or moving in procession amongst the shady green grass and verdant lawns of earth, entertained with the most harmonious and melodious music that mortal ear ever listened to, observant of the doings of mankind, and not unwilling to help them to overcome such unusual or extraordinary difficulties, if called upon, as my story tells.

Donald Duaghal having returned from the wars in Germany to his own country, where his fame preceded him, was a great hero, in the estimation of his retainers. His extraordinary valour, his feats of daring, his fearless conduct, his escaping comparatively scathless of wounds out of all the skirmishes, sieges, and battles in which he took a leading share; all this, magnified by the stories related of him by the few retainers who survived and returned home with him into the Reay country, threw around the man a halo of romance that gave rise to the belief that he must have had a charmed life, and, it might be, some occult relations with the ‘Droch Spiorad’ and the ‘Black art’ in his travels abroad. ‘Nach robh e san Edailt for an d’iunnsaich e an sgoil dubh?’—Italy being the country above all others in which the ‘black art’ was to be acquired. But Donald was never in Italy. It did not matter to Clann Mhic Aoidh. They did not trouble themselves much about correct geography; their chief was abroad; he might have been in Italy; and that was sufficient for the unsophisticated and unlettered people surrounding their beloved chief who had seen much in his travels and campaigns in Norway, Sweden, Germany, and Poland. He had crossed rivers and estuaries, and transported his soldiers over them by bridges of boats constructed by Swedish and Danish military engineers in very little time, even while his soldiers were taking a hasty meal, Donald himself urging on the work and lending a hand—all this was related in Tongue, much to the astonishment of the natives around, who could not believe it. They could not understand how an estuary like the Kyle of Tongue could be bridged in half-an-hour. The feat was too marvellous to be true, and if true there must have been some supernatural assistance. But could he not do anything? Did he not learn the ‘black art’ in Italy? Rumour went and was magnified, till in the long run it was believed that nothing was impossible to Donald. It was rumoured that he intended to throw a bridge over the estuary from Tongue to Melness. This report got wings and was believed. The knowing ones were incredulous, but the credulous had no doubt he could and would do it. Has he not the ‘black art?’ besides, can he not send to the ‘Cailleach Mhor’ in Dornoch? get her to send him the fairies, and the bridge will be built before morning. This was so much talked about that it became a received opinion that Donald Duaghal was supposed to have actually attempted the feat. He sent his Gille to Dornoch to the Cailleach requesting her as a special favour to send him fairies to construct a bridge across the Kyle of Tongue. The Cailleach Mhor consulted the fairy queen, and she, willing to do anything for so brave a man as Donald Duaghal, gave the Cailleach a box to be conveyed to Donald. The Cailleach gave the box to the Gille with strict and peremptory injunctions not to open it till he had delivered it into his master’s hands. Alas! for weak humanity, always prying into secrets, always doing the forbidden—the greater the restriction, the greater the temptation to disobey. In an unlucky moment, going over the Crask, he opened the box, when lo! in an instant, around him and about him on all sides were myriads of tiny creatures, hammer in hand, shrilly clamouring ‘Obair, obair, obair’ (Work, work, work). Nonplused with the extraordinary sight, confounded for a moment with the effect of his disobedience of orders, Mackay’s man was equal to the occasion. Rapidly recovering his presence of mind and appreciating his position, he ordered his importunate companions to set to work and pluck up the heather off the whole hillside upon which they were. No sooner ordered than it was done, and the same clamour was resumed of ‘Obair, obair, obair.’ Driven by this almost to desperation he ordered his little companions to fly away to Dornoch Firth opposite Tain, and there build a bridge for the accommodation of the lieges of Dornoch and Baile Dhuthaich. Instantly they went, and commenced operations, throwing up the sand in clouds to form an embankment, but as ill-luck would have it, some person passing the way about cock-crowing time, hearing the noise and uproar exclaimed ‘Dhia beannaich mis, ciod e an obair tha’n so’(God bless me, what work is this). Work was instantly suspended never to be resumed, in consequence of God’s name being mentioned, and a blessing asked on the work; and well would it have been, had it never been commenced, for the sand accumulated by the fairies in that night’s work forms the dangerous shoals between Dornoch and Tain to this day, the sea roaring over them at every tide, and the noise of the waves heard at the distance of many a mile, portends to the natives the advent of foul weather. To this day the place is called Drochaid na h’Aogh, or the Elfin Bridge.

It is lamentable to contemplate how such vain imaginations as these should have so long weighed upon the intelligence and perception of the people; but it may be asked, were they not fostered in a great measure after the introduction of Christianity? when, through persecution, religion assumed the garb of gloom and fanaticism, when belief in the personal appearance of the devil was universal, and continued till within recent years in the vulgar mind?

Ignorance is justly termed the mother of superstition. Wherever mankind are least accustomed to trace events to natural causes superstitious notions flourish most luxuriantly. When the mind once allows that matters of ordinary and natural occurrence may take place by the interference of the supernatural, there is obviously no limit to the actions they are supposed to perform. In the present age of comparative intelligence it is difficult to comprehend how human beings could be so deplorably ignorant of natural causes and effects as to entertain for a moment such gross notions of the supernatural, and yet, in this nineteenth century, we can observe similar forces at work even in the most respectable ranks of society—Mormonism, Southcotism, spirit-rapping, table-turning. The Saxon of modern days has more superstitious notions in his composition than the Celt, notwithstanding his boastful superiority and pride in being more enlightened and freer from prejudice than any other. He calls his superstitions ‘customs,’ and so reconciles himself to them. Does he like to sit down the thirteenth person at the table or festive board? Does he believe in lucky and unlucky days? Does he believe in the appearance, as a good or evil omen, of two or three magpies when setting out upon a journey? Does he like a hare to cross his path? or the upsetting of salt on the table? the howling of dogs, the cracking of furniture, the tickling noise of an insect in old furniture, the putting on the left shoe first? When he relinquishes these he may hurl his stone of scorn at the Celt for his belief in the Sithichean.

YOUNG GLENGARRY, THE BLACK RAVEN

Once upon a time Old Glengarry was very unpopular with all the northern chiefs, in consequence of his many raids and creachs among the surrounding tribes, but although he was now advanced in years and unable to lead his clan in person, none of the neighbouring chiefs could muster courage to beard him in his den single-handed. There was never much love lost between him and the chief of the Mackenzies, and about this time some special offence was given to the latter by the Macdonells, which the chief of Eileandonan swore would have to be revenged; and the insult must be wiped out at whatever cost. His clan was at that time very much subdivided, and he felt himself quite unable to cope with Glengarry in arms. Mackenzie, however, far excelled his enemy in ready invention, and possessed a degree of subtlety which usually more than made up for his enemy’s superior physical power.

‘Kintail’ managed to impress his neighbouring chiefs with the belief that Glengarry proposed, and was making arrangements, to take them all by surprise and annihilate them by one fell swoop, and that in these circumstances it was imperative, for their mutual safety, to make arrangements forthwith by which the danger would be obviated and the hateful author of such a diabolical scheme extinguished root and branch. By this means he managed to produce the most bitter prejudice against Glengarry and his clan; but all of them being convinced of the folly and futility of meeting the ‘Black Raven,’ as he was called, man to man and clan to clan, Mackenzie invited them to meet him at a great council in Eileandonan Castle, the following week, to discuss the best means of protecting their mutual interests, and to enter into a solemn league, and swear on the ‘raven’s cross’ to exterminate the hated Glengarry and his race, and to raze, burn, and plunder everything belonging to them.

Old Glengarry, whom the ravages of war had already reduced to one son out of several, and he only a youth of immature years, heard of the confederacy formed against him with great and serious concern. He well knew the impossibility of holding out against the combined influence and power of the Western Chiefs. His whole affections were concentrated on his only surviving son, and on realizing the common danger, he bedewed him with tears, and strongly urged upon him the dire necessity of fleeing from the land of his fathers to some foreign land until the danger had passed away. He, at the same time, called his clan together, absolved them from their allegiance, and implored them also to save themselves by flight; and to their honour be it said, one and all spurned the idea of leaving their chief in his old age alone to his fate, exclaiming—‘that death itself was preferable to shame and dishonour.’ To the surprise of all, however, the son, dressed in his best garb, and armed to the teeth, after taking a formal and affectionate farewell of his father, took to the hills amidst the contemptuous sneers of his brave retainers. But he was no sooner out of sight than he directed his course to Lochduich, determined to attend the great council at Eileandonan Castle, at which his father’s fate was to be sealed. He arrived in the district on the appointed day, and carefully habilitating himself in a fine Mackenzie tartan plaid, with which he had provided himself, he made for the stronghold and passed the outer gate with the usual salutation—‘Who is welcome here?’ and passed by unheeded, the guard replying in the most unsuspicious manner—‘Any, any but a Macdonell.’ On being admitted to the great hall he carefully scanned the brilliant assembly. The Mackenzie plaid had put the company completely off their guard; for in those days no one would ever dream of wearing the tartan of any but that of his own leader. The chiefs had already, as they entered the great hall, drawn their dirks and stuck them in the tables before them as an earnest of their unswerving resolution to rid the world of their hated enemy. The brave and intrepid stranger coolly walked up to the head of the table, where the Chief of Kintail presided over the great council, threw off his disguise, seized Mackenzie by the throat, drew out his glittering dagger, held it against his enemy’s heart, and exclaimed with a voice and a determination which struck terror into every breast—‘Mackenzie, if you or any of your assembled guests make the slightest movement, as I live, by the great Creator of the universe, I will instantly pierce you to the heart.’ Mackenzie well knew by the appearance of the youth, and the commanding tone of his voice, that the threat would be instantly executed if any movement was made, and he tremulously exclaimed—‘My friends, for the love of God, stir not, lest I perish at the hands of my inveterate foe at my own table.’ The appeal was hardly necessary, for all were terror-stricken and confused, sitting with open mouths, gazing vacantly, at each other. ‘Now,’ said the young hero, ‘lift up your hands to heaven and swear by the Long, am Bradan, agus an Lamh Dhearg (the ship, the salmon, and the bloody hand), that you will never again molest my father or any of his clan.’ ‘I do now swear as you request’ answered the confused chief. ‘Swear now,’ continued the dauntless youth, ‘you, and all ye round this table, that I will depart from here and be permitted to go home unmolested by you or any of your retainers.’ All, with uplifted hands, repeated the oath. Young Glengarry released his hold on Mackenzie’s throat sheathed his dirk and prepared to take his departure, but was, curious to relate, prevailed upon to remain at the feast and spend the night with the sworn enemies of his race and kindred, and the following morning they parted the best of friends. And thus, by the daring of a stripling, was Glengarry saved the fearful doom that awaited him. The youth ultimately became famous as one of the most courageous warriors of his race. He fought many a single combat with powerful combatants, and invariably came off victorious. He invaded and laid waste Glenmoriston, Urquhart, and Caithness. His life had been one scene of varied havoc, victory, ruin, and bloodshed. He entered into a fierce encounter with one of the Munros of Fowlis, but ultimately met the same fate at the hands of the ‘grim tyrant’ as the greatest coward in the land, and his body lies buried in the churchyard of Tuiteam-tarbhach.

CAWDOR CASTLE.

On the banks of a Highland burn, which falls into the River Nairn some five miles from the town of Nairn, and fifteen from Inverness, stands Castle Cawdor, perhaps the best specimen extant of the baronial castle of the olden time. Its central tower is the oldest portion of the structure. On its east side, commanded by loop holes, is a small court, through which the visitor is ushered by an old drawbridge across a moat. The drawbridge, raised by chains attached to beams resting on the court wall, gives ingress through gateways secured by wooden bars. The staircase, the iron gate—brought from Lochindorb—the great baronial kitchen, partly hewn out of the rock, the massive tower walls, the ample stone mantlepieces, carved with quaint devices, the old furniture, and particularly the old mirrors and tapestry, carry one back many a long year into the social life of the past. Of the building of the castle there is a traditionary tale. In the dungeon of the castle there is the stem of a hawthorn tree, and tradition says that the noble builder was decided as to the position of his intended home by turning adrift an ass loaded with a chest full of gold, and noting the spot on which the animal rested, which was the third hawthorn tree from which he started. That tree is still in the dungeon, the chest itself is a part of the castle relics, and when friends wish prosperity to the family, they do so in the words ‘Freshness to the hawthorn tree of Cawdor.’ The tapestry on the walls was purchased in Arras in 1682, and brought by ship from Bruges to Dysart and Leith, and thence to Findhorn. It is curious to note that one of the grotesque figures on the mantlepiece, dated 1510, is that of a fox smoking, and that, too, a veritable cutty pipe, while the introduction of tobacco by Sir Walter Raleigh did not occur till 1585. After the battle of Culloden, the famous Lord Lovat was concealed in the roof of the castle, but finding his enemies becoming too numerous within the building, he let himself down over the wall by a rope, when he escaped, only to be taken in a hollow tree in an island (in Loch-Morar), was thereafter carried to London, tried, condemned, and beheaded on Tower Hill, on the 9th of April 1747, in the 80th year of his age.

Shakspeare’s imperishable tragedy of Macbeth, founded upon a fictitious narrative which Hollinshed copied from Boece, has immortalized the name of Cawdor. Local tradition insisted on showing, until lately, the room in which the grooms were laid—

“Those of his chamber, as it seem’d had done’t
Their hands and faces were all badged with blood,
So were their daggers, which unwiped we found
Upon their pillows.”

The very blood-marks upon the woodwork were also shown as evidence of Duncan’s assassination by Macbeth, and this, too, in the face of the fact that the licence was granted by James II. to erect the tower in which the tragedy was supposed to have taken place.

The myth has now disappeared locally, a fire having taken place a few years ago, which destroyed the woodwork.

It is now an accredited piece of history that neither in Cawdor nor in Macbeth’s Castle of Inverness, which once stood on the height called the Crown, but at Bothgowanan, near Elgin, the tragedy was accomplished. Macbeth by birth was Maormor of Ross, and—through his marriage with Lady Gruoch, grand-daughter of Kenneth—the fourth Thane of Cawdor. Her grandfather had been dethroned by Malcolm the Second, who also burned her first husband, murdered her brother, and slew the father of Macbeth. All these wrongs were avenged on Duncan, the grandson of Malcolm, whose presence in this part of the country was in order to compel his cousin, who had revolted, to pay tribute.

The castle was built by William, Thane of Cawdor, whose son, John, married Isabel Rose, the daughter of Hugh Rose of Kilravock. This John was a second son, and on him and his heirs was entailed the estate, because his elder brother, William, was lame, and inclined to enter the Church. John died in 1498, leaving two daughters, Janet and Muriel, born after his death. Janet died while an infant, and Muriel succeeded to the estate in virtue of the above-mentioned entail. The Laird of Kilravock designed the heiress for her own cousin, his grandson, but having joined with Mackintosh in a foray in the lands of Urquhart of Cromarty, he was pursued in a criminal process for robbery. Argyle, the then Justice General and Second Earl, had also his intentions regarding Muriel, and having made matters easy for Kilravock, in the matter of the law proceedings, induced the King, with her grandfather’s consent, to award her in marriage to whomsoever he pleased.

Under pretence of sending the child to school, Campbell of Inverliver, in 1499, was sent with a party of sixty men to Kilravock to convey the child to Inveraray to be educated there in the family of Argyle.

The old lady of Kilravock, who did not quite approve of this mode of disposing of the hand of her grandchild, to which the pretended education tended, took good care to prevent the child being changed, a common trick of the times, by marking her on the hip with the key of her coffer, made red hot. That there was a necessity for this, may be imagined from the reply of Campbell of Auchinbeck, who, when asked what was to be done should the child die before she was marriageable. ‘She can never die,’ said he, ‘as long as a red-haired lassie can be found on either side of Loch-Awe.’ The child was, however, delivered to Campbell of Inverliver and his escort, but on arriving at Daltulich, in Strathnairn, he became aware that he was pursued by Alexander and Hugh Calder, the uncles of Muriel, who by no means agreed to the proceeding.

Inverliver faced about, with the largest portion of his party, to receive the Calders, and, to deceive them, kept one of his men in the rear, having a sheaf of oats wrapped in a plaid, as if it were the child, who, however, had been previously sent off with a smaller escort under charge of one of his sons, with strict instructions to proceed to Argyle’s castle with all speed.

The conflict was a severe one, and many fell on both sides. It is said that in the heat of the skirmish, in his extremity, Inverliver gave utterance to the saying which has since passed into a proverb, ‘’S fada glaodh o Loch-Ou, ’s fada cabhair o’ Clann Dhuine’ (’Tis a far cry to Loch-Awe, and a distant help to Clan Duine), signifying immediate danger and distant relief. When Macliver imagined she was safe, and at a considerable distance, he retreated, and, following her, conducted her to Inveraray, where she was educated, and, in 1510, married to Sir John Campbell, the third son of the Earl of Argyle. For his conduct in the affair, Macliver was rewarded by a gift of the twenty pound land of Inverliver.

It was a sister of this Sir John Campbell who married Maclean of Duart, and who was exposed on a low rock between the islands of Mull and Lismore, that she might be drowned by the rising tide. The rock is still known by the name of the Lady’s Rock. From this perilous situation she was rescued by a boat accidentally passing, and conveyed to her brother’s house. Her relations, although much exasperated, smothered their resentment for a time, but only to break out afterwards with greater violence. Maclean of Duart, happening to be in Edinburgh, was surprised when in bed, and assassinated by Muriel’s husband. Sir John Campbell died in 1546, but Muriel survived him until 1575.

A LEGEND OF INVERSHIN.

Long ages ago there stood in the vicinity of Invershin a strong massive castle, built and inhabited by a foreign knight—a stern, haughty man—of whose antecedents nothing could be learned with certainty, although there were plenty of rumours concerning him; the most generally received one being that he had fled from his own country on account of treason, or some other crime. Be that as it may, he had plenty of wealth, built a splendid castle, and kept a great number of retainers. He was extremely fond of fishing, and spent the greater part of his time in the pursuit of the gentle craft. He invented a peculiar kind of cruive, so ingeniously constructed that the salmon on entering it set in motion some springs to which bells were attached: thus they literally tolled their own funeral knell. He was accompanied in his exile by his daughter Bona, and his niece Oykel, both alike beautiful in face and figure, but very dissimilar in disposition. Bona was a fair, gentle being, who seemed formed to love and be loved. Oykel was a dark beauty, handsome, proud, and vindictive.

Among their numerous household there was one who, without being a relative, seemed on terms of intimacy and equality. He was called Prince Shin of Norway, and was supposed to have retired to this northern part of the kingdom for the same reason as his host. He was young, handsome, and brave, and, as a matter of course, the two young ladies fell violently in love with him. For a while he wavered between the two, but at last he fixed his affections upon the gentle Bona, and sought her hand in marriage. The old knight gave his consent, and the future looked bright and full of happiness for the young lovers.

The proud Oykel was deeply mortified at the prince for choosing her cousin in preference to herself, and the daily sight of their mutual attachment drove her into a perfect frenzy of jealousy and wounded pride, until at length nothing would satisfy her but the death of her rival. She accordingly bribed one of her uncle’s unscrupulous retainers to murder her cousin Bona, vainly hoping that in time the prince would transfer his love to herself. The ruffian carried out his cruel order, and concealed the body in a disused dungeon of the castle.

Great was the consternation and dismay caused by the sudden and mysterious disappearance of the lovely Bona; hill and dale, mountain and strath, corrie and burn, were searched in vain; river and loch were dragged to no purpose. Prince Shin was inconsolable; he exerted himself to the utmost in the fruitless search, then, wearied in mind and body, he wandered listless and sad through the flowery fields of Inveran until he reached the birchen groves of Achany, the quiet solitude of which suited better his desolate state. Here, with no prying eyes to see his misery, nor babbling tongues to repeat his sighs and exclamations, he gave himself up for a while to the luxury of grief. Then arose in the breast of the father the agonizing suspicion of foul play; but upon whom could his suspicions fall? Who could have the slightest reason or incentive to injure the kind and gentle Bona? He pondered and mused in gloomy solitude until the terrible idea grew in his mind that it must have been her lover and affianced husband who had thus so cruelly betrayed her trustful love. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘it must be Prince Shin who has committed this diabolical crime; he has tired of her, and took this way to release himself from his solemn contract with her and me, but the villain shall not escape; his punishment shall be as sudden and as great as his crime.’

Having thus settled his conviction of the Prince’s guilt, he caused him to be seized during the night, and thrown into the same dungeon in which, unknown to him, lay the body of his beloved daughter.

The accusation and his seizure was so sudden and unexpected, that for a time Shin lay in his dungeon totally overwhelmed with grief and indignation—grief at the loss of his bride, and indignation at the suspicion and treatment of himself. He was at length aroused and startled by hearing a faint moan somewhere near him, as if from some one in great pain. He strained his eyes to pierce the gloomy darkness that surrounded him; at last, guided by the sound being repeated, he discovered at the other end of the dungeon a recumbent figure, so still and motionless, that it might have been lifeless, but for the occasional faint, unconscious moan. ‘Alas!’ exclaimed he, ‘this is another victim of treachery and cruelty, who is even worse off than I, but who can it be? I have missed no one from the castle, except my adored and lamented Bona.’ While thus speaking, he knelt down to examine the figure more closely, and as he began to get used to the gloom, he could see a little better, when to his inexpressible horror, dismay, and astonishment, he discovered it to be no other than his lost bride, whose young life was fast ebbing away through a frightful stab in her snow-white bosom.

Nearly frantic with grief, he strove with trembling hand to staunch the blood and bind up the wound, at the same time calling her by every endearing name that love could suggest. Again and again he kissed her cold lips, and pressed her tenderly to his heart, trying in vain to infuse life and warmth to the inanimate form of her he loved so well. He was interrupted in his melancholy task by the heavy door of the dungeon creaking on its rusty hinges, as it slowly opened to admit a man-at-arms, whom Shin recognised as one of the foreign retainers of the old knight.

‘Ah! Randolph, is it thou they have sent to murder me? Well, do thy work quickly, death has lost its terrors for me, now that it has seized on my Bona; but yet I would that another hand than thine should strike the fatal blow, for I remember, tho’ perhaps thou forgettest, the day when stricken down in the battle-field thou wert a dead man, had not I interposed my shield, and saved thy life at the risk of my own.’ So saying, he looked the man calmly but sadly in the face.

Randolph had, on first entering, seemed thunder-struck at seeing the prince, and looked, during the delivery of his speech, more like a victim than an executioner; he changed colour, trembled, and finally, throwing himself at the feet of the prince, faltered out with broken voice, ‘Oh! my lord; indeed, indeed, you do me wrong. I knew not that you were here; never would I raise an arm to injure you, my benefactor, my preserver? No, I came to—to——.’ Then glancing from the prince to the lady Bona, he hid his face in his hands and groaned out, ‘I knew not you loved her, or I would rather have died than——.’

A sudden light broke in on the mind of Shin, he sprang like a tiger at the trembling man, and seizing him by the throat, thundered out, ‘Accursed villain, is it thou who hast done this foul deed? thy life shall be the forfeit.’ Then changing his mind, he loosened his deadly grasp, and flinging the man from him as though he were a dog, muttered between his close-set-teeth, ‘I will not soil my hands with the blood of such a dastard, he is only the base tool of another.’ Then raising his voice, he continued, ‘Tell me, thou double-dyed traitor, who set thee on to do this most horrible deed? and for what reason? See that thou tellest me the truth, villain, or by the bones of my father, I will dash thy brains out on the stones beneath our feet.’

The trembling Randolph then explained how he, being absent from the castle on a foraging expedition, knew nothing of the betrothal of Prince Shin and the lady Bona, that on his return he was sent for by Oykel, who, in a private interview, told him she was engaged to the prince, and that Bona, through jealousy, was trying all she could to set the old knight against Shin, and had even laid a plot to poison both her and the prince, and that he (Randolph), believing this specious story, and being greatly attached to the prince, was easily prevailed upon by Oykel to murder her cousin; that he had temporarily hidden her body in the dungeon, and was now come to remove it, and was astonished and horrified to find she was still alive. He then went on to say, that he thought he saw a way to undo some of the mischief he had been the means of doing, and that was to assist Shin to escape, and to carry the lady Bona to a place of safety, until it was seen whether she would recover, and what turn affairs might take at the castle. The prince gladly availed himself of his assistance. They made their escape, and remained in concealment for some time until Bona had somewhat recovered her strength.

In the meantime Oykel, driven to distraction at the disappearance of Shin, seeing the utter fruitlessness of her crime, stung by remorse, and rendered reckless by the pangs of unrequited love, threw herself into the river, which has ever since been called by her name, and which, it is said, is still haunted by her restless, weary spirit. Bona is commemorated in Bonar.

Prince Shin and Bona now came from their concealment, and being fully reconciled to the old knight, were married with great pomp, and shortly afterwards sailed away to Norway, where they lived long and died happy.

THE BONNIE EARL OF MORAY.

The Monadh-liath mountains are an elongated group of lofty and rugged heights, running in a line parallel to Gleann Mor na h-Albainn, in the centre of the southern division of Inverness-shire.

They rest on a dreary heathy moor, are comparatively flowing in their outlines, unbroken in their declivities, and free from very rugged and jagged precipices. They embosom extensive glens, the feeding places for shaggy cattle; there are great slopes on which flocks of sheep pasture, and they contain dreary solitudes where only the grouse and the ptarmigan, the roe and the red deer, are to be found.

Far, far and high upon those mountains, on the side of one of its vast slopes, in a hollow more green than brown, a little burnie commences its existence in a spongy bit of brown ground, covered over with plants bearing white flowers—the Cannach of similar scenes. At first, says one of the best of word painters of his day, you can see nothing of a rill—it is only a slyke. But a little way onward the slyke begins to assume the form and movements of a rill, and you may see it stealing along under the covering grass, in a thread so slender that the fairies might step over it at night and never know it was there.

It is indeed a wild solitude, and few signs of living things are to be seen therein, save perhaps a hoody crow or two that come here now and then to have a little quiet conversation with their neighbours on the subject-matter of braxy, dead lambs, and such-like windfalls. A very infant is the burnie as yet, and very much more like a sleeping than a waking infant; you might lay your ear down to it without hearing sounds greater than the murmurings through the roots of the grass, like the breathings of a baby in the cradle, and, like the baby, also giving an occasional flashing glance at the sun-ray which steals down to see how it is getting on.

By-and-bye, however, it begins to grow, and first crows in audible murmurs, then becomes more noisy and more active, and leaps over the little pebbles that lie in its way, as if it had acquired a taste for fun, and was determined to indulge it.

As it increases in strength, it increases its antics, but all this time it is enjoying itself its ’leefie lane,’ like many other baby born and brought up in the wee cot house of its shepherd parents, under the shadow of some great mountain, or on the banks of some lonely lake—far, far away from human ken. There is not a soul at hand to witness its pranks; the very rushes that grow by the little stream get leave to grow as long as they will, nor are they tortured and plaited into rashen whips, and caps, and buckies—there is not a bairn within ten miles to pull them.

Our burnie flows on in solitude till it has formed its little stream path and has reached the base of a knoll on which was once a herd’s house—a green and sheltered spot. People lived in it for years, and were well acquainted with our burnie at this stage of its course; but they have long since left the place, some of them and their descendants crossed the ocean, and have made a home for themselves in other lands, and the seniors lie in the green graveyard far down the valley.

Regardless of these changes, the burnie goes on in many windings and turnings among the hills, quite happy in its companionless journey, hopping and jumping as it goes, and occasionally breaking out into a little song, though there is not a single bird to reply by an answering carrol—for we are yet far above the regions of birds and bushes—shining bright in the sunshine; there is not a single speck to dim its purity—the very pebbles are purely clean along its margin. How well happiness and purity go together. Such is the infancy of our burnie.

But infancy is but a passing stage with burnies as well as bairns, and our burnie must leave these Alpine solitudes and come into society, although at the expense of its purity and innocence. Bushes begin to appear along its banks, and one of the first is an old thorn, with the earth worn away from its roots by the sheep rubbing themselves against its bark. The ferns grow more luxuriantly round the little green haughs, and where the braes are rather steep for the sheep to feed and lie upon, the primroses star the spots with bright bunches, and the little green meadows are spangled with gowans.

Turning the corner, behold a herd’s house. It is the eldest hope of the family who is laving the waters of the burnie upon the clothes that are bleaching on the grass, and thus putting a portion of its watery treasure to their first economic use; two younger children, a little further down, have cut a side channel through which flows a tiny rill, on which they are busy erecting a toy mill wheel.

The house—a wee, wee cot house—has one little window in the end directed to the burn, and therein sits a cat, winking with listless satisfaction under the glow of the summer scene. There, too, sits a curched grandame working her stocking, rejoicing in the genial warmth which seldom comes so far up the glen, thinking, it may be, of the days when she was full of young life, or of the trials she has undergone since then, or the sad memories of family years which she has since then laid in the auld kirk-yard.

Whisking blithely past this outpost of civilisation, the burnie suddenly falls into a deep ravine, where it gets into a dreadful passion at finding itself confined between steep banks. It kicks, and flings, and fumes, and splutters, and gets into a dreadful fury, first dashing up one side with a splash, and then on the other with a whish, then hits some big stone with a hiss and then another, jumps madly over the heads of some, and goes poking under the ribs of others that are too big to be so dealt with. In fact, it is like many another scene of youthful violence, while it lasts, which fortunately is not very long; for, by-and-bye, it steals calmly out in an open rivulet between green banks, as gently as if nothing had happened, and were rather ashamed of its pranks. It has now come to the place where farm steadings and plantations begin looking onward in its course. Thatched roofs are seen at different points in the surrounding landscape; old-fashioned country wives begin to put it to use in bleaching their clothes on its banks, and there are some nice haughs on which, dotting them, are numerous cocks of meadow hay, and now and then, skipping the stream, a follower of Isaac Walton, when our burnie is now not merely a burn, but is known as the ‘Findhorn’ river, with a very bad character for rising in great floods occasionally, carrying off haycocks, bleachings, and whatever other trifle it can lay hold of. It has begun to show symptoms of earning for itself, by capricious changes of its channel, the character, which it afterwards fully bears out, of being a river not to be trusted to, and being a great friend to the lawyers, by shifting the boundaries of litigious lairds—lairds who have more money than brains, or at least not as many brains as would make them understand to give and take peacefully.

In its journey to the lower country, it runs to a considerable extent parallel with the river and strath of Nairn. Struggling on through many opposing barriers of granite rock, it rushes through narrow gorges with boiling and tumultuous currents, now reposing its still waters in some round sweeping dark pool, and anon patiently, but assiduously, wearing its way through the dark red sandstone cliffs which jut out from its channel, or range in layer above layer, forming high barriers on its banks, while plants and shrubs, and lofty trees, crown and encompass the steep heights, and finely contrast their variegated green with the deep red of the cliffs on which they grow. Here, in some overshadowed dells, the sun with difficulty penetrates and finds the solitary eyries of the eagle, or the falcon, with the dwellings of the congregated heron, thickly perched among the trees, while the ascending salmon rest by dozens during the summer’s noon-day heat in the deep dark pools beneath. As the stream winds towards the sea, its course becomes less interrupted and boisterous. It now sweeps along fertile meadows and wooded copses, till at last, all opposition giving way, it flows out into a broad, still, placid sheet of water, meeting the tides of the ocean half way up the smooth and sandy bay of ‘Findhorn.’

On its romantic banks are situated a succession of gentlemen’s seats, among many others, Altyre, Logie, Relugas, Dunphail, Kincorth, Tannachy, and Darnaway, or Tarnaway, the ancient sylvan retreat and hunting hall of the famous Randolph, Earl of Moray, and now the northern seat of his noble descendants. South of the Brodie station on the Highland Railway, in the lower fringe of the Darnaway oak and pine forest, which extends for many miles inland, and is the remains of the old Caledonian forest, concealed from view, though not two miles distant, is the Castle of Darnaway, famous in the history of the country and in the traditions of the neighbourhood as the home of a family, almost the kings of the district of Moray, and occupying at one time a most important position in the historical records of the country. Had it fortuned to an Englishman, twenty-five or thirty years ago, to visit the county of Elgin, he could not have failed to hear of the Earl of Moray’s forest of Tarnaway, which then stretched for miles along the banks of this grand Highland stream—the Findhorn—in all the untrimmed luxuriance which he could have expected in going to wait on the Duke of Arden. He would have been further surprised to hear of two brothers entirely realizing the old ballad ideas of gallant young huntsmen—superb figures attired in the ancient dress of the country, and full of chivalric feeling—who, giving up the common pursuits of the world, spent most of their days in following the deer through this pathless wild. Men of an old time they seemed to be; of frames more robust than what belongs to men now-a-days, and with a hardihood which appeared to make them superior to all personal exposure and fatigue. At the same time they possessed cultivated minds, and no small skill in many of the most elegant accomplishments. This is their description of the locality:—