was the scene of one of the bloodiest acts of ferocity and revenge that
history has recorded. The original building has long since disappeared,
but the lonely and beautifully situated burying-ground is still in use.
The tragedy originated in the many quarrels which arose between the two
chiefs of the North Highlands--Mackenzie of Kintail and Macdonald of
Glengarry. As usual, the dispute was regarding land, but it were not
easy to arrive at the degree of blame to which each party was entitled,
enough that there was bad blood between these two paladins of the north.
Of course, the quarrel was not allowed to go to sleep for lack of action
on the part of their friends and clansmen. The Macdonalds having made
several raids on the Mackenzie country, the Mackenzies retaliated by the
spoiling of Morar with a large and overwhelming force. The Macdonalds,
taking advantage of Kenneth Mackenzie's visit to Mull with the view to
influence Maclean to induce the former to peace, once more committed
great devastation in the Mackenzie country, under the leadership of
Glengarry's son Angus. From Kintail and Lochalsh the clan of the
Mackenzies gathered fast, but too late to prevent Macdonald from
escaping to sea with his boats loaded with the foray. A portion of the
Mackenzies ran to Eilean-donan, while another portion sped to the narrow
strait of the Kyle between Skye and the mainland, through which the
Macdonalds, on their return, of necessity, must pass. At Eilean-donan
Lady Mackenzie furnished them with two boats, one ten-oared and one
four-oared, also with arrows and ammunition. Though without their chief,
the Mackenzies sallied forth, and rowing towards Kyleakin, lay in wait
for the approach of the Macdonalds. The first of the Glengarry boats
they allowed to pass unchallenged, but the second, which was the
thirty-two-oared galley of the chief was furiously attacked. The
unprepared Macdonalds rushing to the side of the heavily loaded boat,
swamped the craft, and were all thrown into the sea, where they were
despatched in large numbers, and those who escaped to the land were
destroyed "by the Kintail men, who killed them like _sealchagan_."[A]
The body of young Glengarry was secured and buried in the very door-way
of the Kirk of Kintail, that the Mackenzies might trample over it
whenever they went to church. Time passed on, Donald _Gruamach_, the
old chief, died ere he could mature matters for adequate retaliation of
the Kyle tragedy and the loss of his son Angus. The chief of the clan
was an infant in whom the feelings of revenge could not be worked out by
action; but there was one, his cousin, who was the Captain or Leader in
whom the bitterest thoughts exercised their fullest sway. It seems now
impossible that such acts could have occurred, and it gives one a
startling idea of the state of the country then, when such a terrible
instance of private vengeance could have been carried out so recent as
the beginning of the seventeenth century, without any notice being taken
of it, even, in those days of general blood and rapine. Notwithstanding
the hideousness of sacrilege and murder, which, certainly, in magnitude
of atrocity, was scarcely ever equalled, there are many living, even in
the immediate neighbourhood, who are ignorant of the cause of the act.
Macranuil of Lundi, captain of the clan, whose personal prowess was only
equalled by his intense ferocity, made many incursions into the
Mackenzie country, sweeping away their cattle, and otherwise doing them
serious injury; but these were but preludes to that sanguinary act on
which his soul gloated, and by which he hoped effectually to avenge the
loss of influence and property of which his clan were deprived by the
Mackenzies, and more particularly wash out the records of death of his
chief and clansmen at Kyleakin. In order to form his plans more
effectually he wandered for some time as a mendicant among the
Mackenzies in order the more successfully to fix on the best means and
spot for his revenge. A solitary life offered up to expiate the manes of
his relatives was not sufficient in his estimation, but the life's blood
of such a number of his bitterest foemen, and an act at which the
country should stand aghast was absolutely necessary. Returning home he
gathered together a number of the most desperate of his clan, and by a
forced march across the hills arrived at the Church of Cilliechriost on
a Sunday forenoon, when it was filled by a crowd of worshippers of the
clan Mackenzie. Without a moments delay, without a single pang of
remorse, and while the song of praise ascended to heaven from fathers,
mothers, and children, he surrounded the church with his band, and with
lighted torches set fire to the roof. The building was thatched, and
while a gentle breeze from the east fanned the fire, the song of praise,
mingled with the crackling of the flames, until the imprisoned
congregation, becoming conscious of their situation, rushed to the doors
and windows, where they were met by a double row of bristling swords.
Now, indeed, arose the wild wail of despair, the shrieks of women, the
infuriated cries of men, and the helpless screaming of children, these
mingled with the roaring of the flames appalled even the Macdonalds, but
not so Allan Dubh. "Thrust them back into the flames" cried he, "for he
that suffers ought to escape alive from Cilliechriost shall be branded
as a traitor to his clan"; and they were thrust back or mercilessly hewn
down within the narrow porch, until the dead bodies piled on each other
opposed an unsurmountable barrier to the living. Anxious for the
preservation of their young children, the scorching mothers threw them
from the windows in the vain hope that the feelings of parents awakened
in the breasts of the Macdonalds would induce them to spare them, but
not so. At the command of Allan of Lundi they were received on the
points of the broadswords of men in whose breasts mercy had no place.
It was a wild and fearful sight only witnessed by a wild and fearful
race. During the tragedy they listened with delight to the piper of the
band, who marching round the burning pile, played to drown the screams
of the victims, an extempore pibroch, which has ever since been
distinguished as the war tune of Glengarry under the title of
"Cilliechriost." The flaming roof fell upon the burning victims, soon
the screams ceased to be heard, a column of smoke and flame leapt into
the air, the pibroch ceased, the last smothered groan of existence
ascended into the still sky of that Sabbath morning, whispering as it
died away that the agonies of the congregation were over.
East, west, north, and south looked Allan Dubh Macranuil. Not a living
soul met his eye. The fire he kindled had destroyed, like the spirit of
desolation. Not a sound met his ear, and his own tiger soul sunk within
him in dismay. The Parish of Cilliechriost seemed swept of every living
thing. The fearful silence that prevailed, in a quarter lately so
thickly peopled, struck his followers with dread; for they had given in
one hour the inhabitants of a whole parish, one terrible grave. The
desert which they had created filled them with dismay, heightened into
terror by the howls of the masterless sheep dogs, and they turned to
fly. Worn out with the suddenness of their long march from Glengarry,
and with their late fiendish exertions, on their return they sat down to
rest on the green face of Glenconvinth, which route they took in order
to reach Lundi through the centre of Glenmorriston by Urquhart. Before
they fled from Cilliechriost Allan divided his party into two, one
passing by Inverness and the other as already mentioned; but the
Macdonalds were not allowed to escape, for the flames had roused the
Mackenzies as effectually as if the fiery cross had been sent through
their territories. A youthful leader, a cadet of the family of Seaforth,
in an incredibly short time, found himself surrounded by a determined
band of Mackenzies eager for the fray; these were also divided into two
bodies, one commanded by Murdoch Mackenzie of Redcastle, proceeded by
Inverness, to follow the pursuit along the southern side of Loch Ness;
another headed by Alexander Mackenzie of Coul, struck across the country
from Beauly, to follow the party of the Macdonalds who fled along the
northern side of Loch Ness under their leader Allan Dubh Macranuil. The
party that fled by Inverness were surprised by Redcastle in a
public-house at Torbreck, three miles to the west of the town where they
stopped to refresh themselves. The house was set on fire, and they
all--thirty-seven in number--suffered the death which, in the earlier
part of the day, they had so wantonly inflicted. The Mackenzies, under
Coul, after a few hours' hard running, came up with the Macdonalds as
they sought a brief repose on the hills towards the burn of Aultsigh.
There the Macdonalds maintained an unequal conflict, but as guilt only
brings faint hearts to its unfortunate votaries they turned and again
fled precipitately to the burn. Many, however, missed the ford, and the
channel being rough and rocky several fell under the swords of the
victorious Mackenzies. The remainder, with all the speed they could
make, held on for miles lighted by a splendid and cloudless moon, and
when the rays of the morning burst upon them, Allan Dubh Macranuil and
his party were seen ascending the southern ridge of Glen Urquhart with
the Mackenzies close in the rear. Allan casting an eye behind him and
observing the superior numbers and determination of his pursuers, called
to his band to disperse in order to confuse his pursuers and so divert
the chase from himself. This being done, he again set forward at the
height of his speed, and after a long run, drew breath to reconnoitre,
when, to his dismay, he found that the avenging Mackenzies were still
upon his track in one unbroken mass. Again he divided his men and bent
his flight towards the shore of Loch Ness, but still he saw the foe with
redoubled vigour, bearing down upon him. Becoming fearfully alive to his
position, he cried to his few remaining companions again to disperse,
until they left him, one by one, and he was alone. Allan, who as a mark
of superiority and as Captain of the Glengarry Macdonalds, always wore a
red jacket, was easily distinguished from the rest of his clansmen, and
the Mackenzies being anxious for his capture, thus easily singled him
out as the object of their joint and undiverted pursuit. Perceiving the
sword of vengeance ready to descend on his head he took a resolution as
desperate in its conception as unequalled in its accomplishment. Taking
a short course towards the fearful ravine of Aultsigh he divested
himself of his plaid and buckler, and turning to the leader of the
Mackenzies, who had nearly come up with him, beckoned him to follow,
then with a few yards of a run he sprang over the yawning chasm, never
before contemplated without a shudder. The agitation of his mind at the
moment completely overshadowed the danger of the attempt, and being of
an athletic frame he succeeded in clearing the desperate leap. The young
and reckless Mackenzie, full of ardour and determined at all hazards to
capture the murderer followed; but, being a stranger to the real width
of the chasm, perhaps of less nerve than his adversary, and certainly
not stimulated by the same feelings, he only touched the opposite brink
with his toes, and slipping downwards he clung by a slender shoot of
hazel which grew over the tremendous abyss. Allan Dubh looking round on
his pursuer and observing the agitation of the hazel bush, immediately
guessed the cause, and returning with the ferocity of a demon who had
succeeded in getting his victim into his fangs, hoarsely whispered, "I
have given your race this day much, I shall give them this also, surely
now the debt is paid," when cutting the hazel twig with his sword, the
intrepid youth was dashed from crag to crag until he reached the stream
below, a bloody and misshapen mass. Macranuil again commenced his
flight, but one of the Mackenzies, who by this time had come up, sent a
musket shot after him, by which he was wounded, and obliged to slacken
his pace. None of his pursuers, however, on coming up to Aultsigh, dared
or dreamt of taking a leap which had been so fatal to their youthful
leader, and were therefore under the necessity of taking a circuitous
route to gain the other side. This circumstance enabled Macranuil to
increase the distance between him and his pursuers, but the loss of
blood, occasioned by his wound, so weakened him that very soon he found
his determined enemies were fast gaining on him. Like an infuriated wolf
he hesitated whether to await the undivided attack of the Mackenzies or
plunge into Loch Ness and attempt to swim across its waters. The shouts
of his approaching enemies soon decided him, and he sprung into its
deep and dark wave. Refreshed by its invigorating coolness he soon swam
beyond the reach of their muskets; but in his weak and wounded state it
is more than probable he would have sunk ere he had crossed half the
breadth had not the firing and the shouts of his enemies proved the
means of saving his life. Fraser of Foyers seeing a numerous band of
armed men standing on the opposite bank of Loch Ness, and observing a
single swimmer struggling in the water, ordered his boat to be launched,
and pulling hard to the individual, discovered him to be his friend
Allan Dubh, with whose family Fraser was on terms of friendship.
Macranuil, thus rescued remained at the house of Foyers until he was
cured of his wound, but the influence and the Clan of the Macdonalds
henceforth declined, while that of the Mackenzies surely and steadily
increased.
The heavy ridge between the vale of Urquhart and Aultsigh where Allan
Dubh Macranuil so often divided his men, is to this day called
_Monadh-a-leumanaich_ or "the Moor of the Leaper."
(_To be Continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Snails.]
CAN THIS BE THE LAND?
"_How are the mighty fallen!_"
Can this be the land where of old heroes flourished?
Can this be the land of the sons of the blast?
Gloom-wrapt as a monarch whose greatness hath perished,
Its beauty of loneliness speaks of the past:--
Tell me ye green valleys, dark glens, and blue mountains,
Where now are the mighty that round ye did dwell?
Ye wild-sweeping torrents, and woe-sounding fountains,
Say, is it their spirits that wail in your swell?
Oft, oft have ye leaped when your children of battle,
With war-bearing footsteps rushed down your dark crests;
Oft, oft have ye thundered with far-rolling rattle,
The echoes of slogans that burst from their breasts:--
Wild music of cataracts peals in their gladness,--
Hoarse tempests still shriek to the clouds lightning-fired,--
Dark shadows of glory departed, in sadness
Still linger o'er ruins where dwelt the inspired.
The voice of the silence for ever is breaking
Around the lone heaths of the glory-sung braves;
Dim ghosts haunt in sorrow, a land all forsaken,
And pour their mist tears o'er the heather-swept graves:--
Can this be the land of the thunder-toned numbers
That snowy bards sung in the fire of their bloom?
Deserted and blasted, in death's silent slumbers,
It glooms o'er my soul like the wreck of a tomb.
SUNDERLAND. WM. ALLAN.
HIGHLAND FOLK-LORE.
BY "NETHER-LOCHABER."
FOLK-LORE--a word of recent importation from the German--is a big word,
and Highland Folk-Lore is a big subject, so big and comprehensive that
not one Magazine article, but a many-chaptered series of Magazine
articles would be necessary ere one could aver that he had done his
"text" anything like justice. On the present occasion, therefore, we do
not pretend to enter into the heart of a subject so extensive and
many-sided: we shall content ourselves with a little scouting and
skirmishing, so to speak, along the borders of a territory which it is
possible we may ask the readers at some future time to explore along
with us more at large. A few of the many proverbs, wisdom words, and
moral and prudential sentences in daily use shall, in clerical phrase,
meantime form "the subject-matter of our discourse." Nor must the reader
think that the subject is in any wise _infra dignitate_, unworthy, that
is, or undignified. Of the world-renowned Seven Wise Men of Greece, five
at least attained to all their eminence and fame no otherwise than
because they were the cunning framers of maxims and proverbs that
rightly interpreted were calculated to advance and consolidate the moral
and material welfare of the nation around them. Of the remaining two, it
is true that one was an eminent politician and legislator, and the other
a natural philosopher of the first order; but it is questionable if
either of them would have been considered entitled to their prominent
place in the Grecian _Pleiades_ of Wise Men had they not been
proverb-makers and utterers of brief but pregnant "wisdom-words" as
well. Even Solomon, the wisest of men, was less celebrated as a botanist
and naturalist, though he spake of trees, from the cedar that is in
Lebanon, even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall; and of
beasts, and of fowls, and of creeping things, and of fishes--less
celebrated even as a lyrist, though his songs were a thousand and five,
than for his proverbs and moral maxims of which the record takes care to
tell us he spake no less than "three thousand." So much then for the
dignity of our subject: what engaged the attention of Solomon and the
Seven Sages of Greece cannot surely be unworthy some small share of our
regard.
"Six and half-a-dozen" is an English phrase, implying either that two
things are exactly the same, or so very much alike as to be practically
the same. The old Gael was not much of an arithmetician, he rarely
meddled with numbers, and therefore no precisely similar phrase is to be
found in his language; but he could express the same idea in his own
way, and so pithily and emphatically that his version of the proverbial
axiom is, perhaps, as good as is to be found in any other language
whatever. The Gael's equivalent for "six and half-a-dozen" is, "_Bo
mhaol odhar, agus bo odhar, mhaol_"--(A cow that is doddled and dun, and
a cow that is dun and doddled)--a phrase drawn, as are many of his most
striking proverbs and prudential maxims, and very naturally too, from
his pastoral surroundings. We recollect an admirable and very ludicrous
application of this saying in a story once told us by the late Dr Norman
Macleod of Glasgow, "old" Norman that is, not the Barony Doctor, but his
father:--When a boy in Morven, of which parish his father was minister,
there was a well-known character in that part of the country called
"_Eoghann Gorach Chraigan Uibhir_," Daft Ewen of Craig-an-Ure in Mull, a
born "natural," who, although a veritable "fool," had yet in him much of
the quiet, keen-edged satire and roguery which is not unfrequently found
in the better ranks of such "silly ones." Ewen regularly perambulated
Mull and Morven, with an occasional raid into the neighbouring districts
of Sunart and Ardnamurchan. He had sense enough to be able to carry the
current news of the day from district to district, and on this account
was always a welcome guest in every farm-house and hamlet on his beat;
and as he sung a capital song, and was remarkable for much harmless
drollery and "dafting," he was, it is needless to say, a great favourite
everywhere. He took a great interest in ecclesiastical affairs, and
always attended the church when the state of his wardrobe and other
circumstances permitted. On one occasion Ewen was passing through
Morven, and knowing that the annual communion time was approaching, he
called upon the minister and begged to know who his assistants on that
particular occasion were to be. He was going to pay a visit, he said, to
all the glens and outlying hamlets in the parish, and as the people were
sure to ask him the important question, he wished to have the proper
answer direct from the minister himself. "_Tha raghadh 'us taghadh nam
ministeiran, Eoghainn; An Doiteir A. B. a Inneraora, agus an Doiteir C.
D. a Muille._" (The pick and choice of ministers Ewen said the minister,
Doctor A. B. from Inverary, and Doctor C. D. from Mull). "Whe-e-we!" in
a contemptuously prolonged low whistle replied Ewen. "_An ann mar so a
tha; Bo mhaol, odhar, agus bo odhar, mhaol!_" (And is it even so; are
these to be your assistants? A cow that is doddled and dun, and a cow
that is dun and doddled!) Than which nothing could more emphatically
convey Ewen's very small opinion of the "assistants" mentioned. They
were much of a muchness; six and half-a-dozen; a cow doddled and dun,
and a cow dun and doddled! The Gael was a keen observer of natural
phenomena, and some of his best sayings were founded on the knowledge
thus acquired. Meteorological "wisdom-words" for instance, are quite
common. "_Mar chloich a ruith le gleann, tha feasgar fann foghairidh_"
is an admirable example. (As is the headlong rush of a stone, atumbling
down the glen, so hurried and of short duration is an autumnal
afternoon.) The philosophy of the saying is that you are to begin your
work betimes in the season of autumn; at early dawn if possible, and not
to stop at all for dinner, seeing that once the day has passed its
prime, the hour of sunset approaches with giant strides, and there is
little or no twilight to help you if you have been foolish enough to
dawdle your time in the hours of sunset proper. "_'S fas a chùil as nach
goirear_" is another pregnant adage. (Desert, indeed, is the corner
whence no voice of bird is heard.) Some people are very quiet, almost
dumb indeed, but on the occurrence of some event, or on the back of
some remark of yours, they speak, and speak so clearly and well that
you are surprised, and quote the saying that it is a solitary and silent
glade indeed whence no voice is heard. "_Am fear a bhios na thamh,
saoilidh e gur i lamh fhein as fhearr air an stiùir_" is a common saying
of much meaning and wide application. (He that is idle [a mere
spectator] thinks that he could steer the boat better than the man
actually in charge.) And we all know how apt we are to meddle, and
generally unwisely, with the proper labours of others. Nothing, for
instance, is more annoying and dangerous even than to put forth your
hand by way of helping a driver in managing his horses, or to interfere
with the tiller of a boat at which a perfectly competent man is already
seated. We have known the saying just quoted scores of times suffice to
stop the unwise and gratuitous intermeddling of such as were disposed to
interfere with what did not properly belong to them. "_Bidh fear an aon
mhairt aig uairean gun bhainne_" is a frequent saying, and implies more
than is at first sight apparent. (The man with only one cow will be at
times without milk.) The import of the saying is something more than a
mere statement of fact. You have only one cow, and you are certain to be
at times without milk. Get by your industry and perseverance _two_ cows
or three, and then you are pretty sure to have more or less milk all the
year round.
We have thus briefly touched the hem, so to speak, of a very interesting
subject--a subject that in the Highlands of Scotland, at least, has
never yet received a tittle of the attention it deserves. And let no one
be afraid to meddle with it to any extent he pleases, for we promise him
that he will meet with nothing in any way to shock his delicacy or
offend his taste, no matter how fine so ever of edge and exquisite; and
in this respect, at all events, the good old Gael is superior to that of
any other people of whom we have any knowledge. We may, perhaps, deal
more at large with the subject in a future number. Meantime, we may
state that we are of the same opinion as the Editor of the _Inverness
Courier_; there is abundance of room for the _Celtic Magazine_ if it
continues to be well conducted, without, in the least degree,
encroaching upon the territories of any other periodicals interested in
Celtic affairs.
NETHER-LOCHABER, November 1875.
IMAGINATION.
_Dedicated by consent to_ ALFRED TENNYSON.