CHAPTER II.

THE INNER HEBRIDES.

“The Isles, where dewy morning weaves

Her chaplet with the tints that twilight leaves;

Where late the sun, scarce vanished from the sight,

And his bright pathway graced the short-lived night.”

Real Argyleshire rain! Drenching, pouring, soaking, pitiless rain! How

it did rain! After such a spell of sunshine, why should it have chosen

this very morning to begin this cruel work just as we started for a

forty-six mile drive, first across the hills to Campbeltown, and thence

to Tarbert, along a coast whose beauty we had already proved, and with

which we had vainly hoped to refresh our memories? Our conveyance was

the lumbering old coach which still runs between Campbeltown and

Tarbert, and it was suggested that we should go inside; but, thinking

the remedy worse than the disease, we preferred testing our good and

trusty waterproofs; a panoply without which they would be rash indeed

who would venture to set foot in the dominions of His Hieland Glory, the

great MacCailian Môr, and brave his lawless rain.

It was some consolation that the worthies at the various stages, for

once, allowed that it was something more than a “fine saft day,” and

condescended to take refuge under their own roofs, and leave drowned

understrappers to do all the work; while good John, our gentle Jehu,

whose aversion to the whip was as great as that of our host at Losset,

soothed and coaxed obedience out of the most unpromising quadrupeds.

“Steady, my wee pet,” to a great raw-boned brute, with a wicked eye.

“Noo, my bonnie lassie,” to a long-legged, clumsy old cow. A very master

in the art of kindly flattery, is this master of the ribbons.

As we drove along the coast, we had a farewell peep of the little Isle

of Gigha, the burial-place of the Macneils, a meet haven for these

turbulent island lords, with the wildest sea-waves for ever guarding

their rest. On several of the old tombs we can still trace the

rudely-carved two-handed sword, half hidden by a coating of warm dark

moss. Some relics, too, there are, of yet more ancient days. Great

cairns near which stand tall rough monoliths, once, doubtless,

suggesting names that in their day were deemed immortal, but of which

all tradition has long since been lost. At one place there is a group of

three such old cairns, and one great monolith, which has been carved

into the semblance of a cross, by some zealous Christian of old. Near

this is a well, which the Macneils of yore had only to stir, if they

were windbound, and straightway a favourable gale arose, to speed them

on their course. A little further to sea lies the low shore of Islay, so

called from Yla or Eila, a Danish princess, whose grave near the bay of

Knock is still marked by two large upright stones.

Here, too, on the brink of the river Laggan, “Brian of Ila” was buried,

standing upright, and holding in his hand a spear, such as that which he

used to dart at the salmon. The ruling passion, you see, was strong in

death. In Islay, beside Loch Finlagan, one (or more) of the old Lords of

the Isles held his court; and standing on a big stone seven feet square,

received the homage of all his vassals, a ceremony graced by the

sanction of the Church; “for,” says the old chronicle, “the Bishop of

Argyle and seven priests did anoint and crown him king of the Isles,

placing his father’s sword in his hand, whereupon he swore to protect

the Islesmen, and do justice to all his subjects.”

It is curious to note the strange quibble by which this peninsula of

Cantyre came to be included among the Hebrides. A very narrow neck of

land, such as that which connects this with the mainland, is generally

called Tarbat or Tarbert, from two old words: _Tarruing_, to draw, and

_Bata_, a boat; because in some cases it saved both time and trouble to

drag the boats across the isthmus, rather than sail round the land. This

was especially true of the Mull of Cantyre, whose difficult navigation

and fearful storms were so dreaded, that vessels of nine or ten tons

were frequently drawn by horses out of the west loch to that on the east

(a distance of barely a mile), thus avoiding the long and dangerous sail

all round the peninsula. This fact was taken advantage of by the

Norwegian king, Magnus, “the barefoot king,” when Donald-Bane of

Scotland was forced to cede to him the Western Isles, including _all

places that could be surrounded in a boat_. Placing himself in the stern

of a boat, he held the rudder, was drawn over this narrow track, and

thus took possession of the Mull.

Well, it poured without intermission till we reached Tarbert, where

there still remain the ruins of a castle built by the Bruce. Thence we

took the steamer to Lochgilphead, where a smaller steamboat was waiting

to take us through the Crinan Canal, and we sat on the deck to catch a

glimpse of old Duntroon Castle, but it looked grey and cold and wet, and

not a bit like the same place where we used to sail, or row, or scramble

in the sunny summer evenings. At Crinan we again changed steamers, and

still the rain poured on: “It was never weary.” We knew that on our left

lay the Islands of Scarba and Jura, between which rush the mighty tides

which swirl and roar round a hidden reef in mid channel, whence shelving

rocks on every side project far under the water, and so create the

whirlpool of Corrievreckan, “The cauldron of the foaming tide,” which

boils and ferments as the impetuous currents meet, till the waves are

heaped up like pyramids, which break and spout in dashing spray.

Sometimes this wild ferment makes the whole sea white with foam, and

then the people say that the Caillach (the old hag) has put on her

kerchief, and any ship rash enough to approach would meet its certain

doom.

The legend of these tumultuous waters tells that the word Bhreacan

(Corrie-Bhreacan), which some have translated as “foaming stream,” was

really the name of a brave young Danish prince, who loved a daughter of

the Lord of the Isles, and desired to woo and win her. Her father did

not favour his suit, yet, not willing to offend the King of Lochlin, he

answered craftily that the prince should indeed have his daughter

providing he would prove his courage and his skill as a seaman, by

anchoring his galley for three days and three nights in the dread

whirlpool. The young prince, nothing daunted, returned to Lochlin to

consult with his wise men as to the best means of safety. They bade him

take three cables,—one of hemp, one of wool, and one of woman’s hair.

The hempen cable and the woollen one were easy to find, but as to the

third, every hair of which must come from the head of a maiden of

spotless fame, it demanded such sacrifice as few damsels would care to

make. However, the prince was beloved, and the fame of his beauty and of

his brave deeds in love and war, had reached the bower of many a Danish

maid. So the daughters of the land cut off their long fair locks, and a

cable was woven thereof, which should resist the mightiest tempest that

ever raged in that seething cauldron. Then the prince returned to the

father of his love and announced his readiness to do his will. He

anchored in the whirlpool. The first day the hempen cable broke. The

second day the woollen one parted. The third day came, and the gift of

the maidens of Lochlin still held its ground. The young prince was full

of gladness, for his triumph seemed nigh at hand. But alas! for that law

which makes the strength of the mightiest cable equal only to its

weakest link. There was one fair tress binding him to the anchor of his

hope which had been shorn from the head of one whose fame was no longer

without blemish. So the resistless might of unspotted purity was not

there to bind the raging waters, and the last rope parted, and the ship

was sucked down in the mad whirling vortex, down, down, down, to the

unfathomable depths of ocean. But the body of the prince was brought to

land by his faithful dog, and dragged to a cave that bears his name,

where a little cairn still marks the spot where Bhreacan was buried. The

dog returned to the water, doubtless seeking some other friend, and he

perished in a lesser whirlpool between the Isles of Scarba and Lunga,

and that Sound is still known as the Grey Dog’s Slap.

To the north-west of Scarba lies the little island of Elachnave, where

there remain traces of some of the very earliest monastic buildings,

situated near an ancient cemetery of the roughest sea-stones, one of

which bears a rudely graven cross; there are also two beehive cells of

slate, covered with grass, perhaps the humble homes of holy men of old.

All this time we were passing through scenery which we believed to be

bewilderingly lovely, if we could but have seen it, instead of the

sheets of grey rain, which poured down incessantly from the heavy

clouds. But towards evening, as we neared Oban, the quiet little

harbour, as its name implies, the dark storm drifted away, and the sun

shone forth in penitent beauty, changing the whole face of nature.

Instead of earth, sea, and sky being all of one leaden hue, the scene

was now flooded with tender rainbow-coloured light; fairy islands in the

far distance seemed to float ethereally on the opal-tinted sea, and the

great hills of Mull appeared as if rising from the waves, like some pale

spirit, faintly visible through the tremulous evening light.

Just beyond the town rises the stern old Castle of Dunolly, perched on a

grey projecting craig, which, rising abruptly from the shore, commands

the harbour on either side; a strong tower of defence in olden days, and

one which no foeman’s galley could approach unseen. Now a picturesque

garden nestles round the base of the craig, adding gem-like touches of

colour to the flush of heather which lies in every cranny of the grey

rock, while a background of green and gold foliage serves as a rich

setting to the whole. Near the base of the cliff one huge rock boulder

stands upright, as if placed there by some giant hand. This is known as

the Dog’s Stone, for here it was that Fingal was wont to tie his

faithful dog Bran in ages long before Macdougals or Campbells had taken

possession of the land. You know this grim old fortress of Dunolly was

the eerie where the Macdougals of Lorn, eagle-like, built their nest

overhanging the waves. They were lineal descendants of the first Dougal,

Lord of the Isles, son of the great Somerled, whose place of burial we

noted at Saddell. The old castle is now in ruins, later generations

having preferred to build themselves a modern home in a more sheltered

nook, where, among other family treasures, they still retain the

far-famed brooch of Lorn, snatched from the Bruce by their ancestor John

of Lorn.

Resolved to make the most of so beautiful an evening, we wandered along

the shore in the direction of Gallanach, by far the most lovely, and yet

the least frequented road in the neighbourhood of Oban, winding beneath

grey crags, close to the sea; and disclosing at every turn some fresh

vision of beauty; dreamy isles or the nearer mainland.

The dewy freshness of a sweet spring morning tempted us forth betimes,

to explore another fine old ruin, the Castle of Dunstaffnage, a far more

imposing mass of building than Dunolly, though lacking the grandeur of

its rocky ramparts. But the low grassy shore on which it stands is

washed all round by the blue sea-loch, so that at high tide it is in

fact an island, and the waters, coming close in shore, serve as a mirror

to reflect the grey weather-beaten fortress, only rendering its image in

mellower tones than the stern walls ever wear in reality. Nor is its

beauty lessened when the receding waters expose the dark rocks fringed

with golden sea-weed,—rocks on which you may sometimes surprise a whole

family of seals basking in the warm sunshine,—a grey old grandmother

surrounded by her children and grandchildren, the latter dark in colour

as the dry wrack on which they lie. They will slip shyly into the water

at your approach, but perhaps you may wile them back with some plaintive

song, for they have keen ears for music, and will brave even the dreaded

human presence for the sake of some favourite melody. Often, while

sailing on this very loch, we have tested this curious fact, and watched

the black shining heads appearing from time to time, as these

music-loving creatures swam in the wake of our galley, attracted by the

sound of songs, or of old Scotch tunes played on an accordion. Talking

of “grey old grandmothers,” I remember one patriarchal seal, who in her

old age had turned so silvery white that as she lay on the rocks close

in shore, we all with one accord agreed that it must be a sheep which

had fallen from the cliffs overhead. As we sailed nearer, the likeness

seemed to increase, even to the experienced eyes of our older sportsmen;

so we determined to put off a boat and rescue the poor sufferer who lay

so still and motionless, only from time to time turning her head

uneasily at our approach. It was not till we were within easy shot (a

shot which, of course, was never fired) that the old lady condescended

to lift herself up, and, looking down on us in calm surprise, plunged

into the cool clear waves, leaving the invaders very much astonished at

their own lack of discrimination.

In a cool shady glade, a stone’s throw from the castle, stands a ruined

chapel, ivy-clad, where many a carved stone tells of the sleepers who

have here found so calm a resting-place after life’s turmoil—a lonely

spot, seldom trodden by human foot, but haunted by white-winged

sea-birds that float spirit-like in mid-air, sometimes alighting on the

hallowed ground, and peering about inquisitively, as they walk solemnly

over tombs of Vikings and Chiefs of old. Apart from the exceeding

natural beauty which lends such a charm to all this coast, there is the

special interest of countless old legends, which connect not only these

grey ruins, but all the country round, with the successive holders of

the soil,—those divers races who by turns have swept over the land, each

leaving their little mark behind them. The very name of this

district—Beregonium—falls strangely on the ear, accustomed rather to the

sound of Celtic or of Norse than to such classic old Latin, and reminds

us of the days when Roman invaders, having driven out the earlier

settlers, seem to have recognised the importance of this position as a

key alike to the Hebrides and the western coast. Here, in the massive

headland (which, jutting into the sea, commands both plain and ocean),

they found a position so strongly fortified by Nature’s ramparts of

rugged rock, as to require but small aid from human skill to convert it

into an impregnable encampment.

Of the original inhabitants, little is of course known, but this spot is

believed to have been one of the principal settlements of the Dalriads,

if not the capital of their kingdom. Certain it is, that many of the

oldest legends of Ossian cluster round this immediate neighbourhood,

where Fingal is said to have held his court and shared with his warriors

in wild feasts and frays.

From Dunstaffnage we overlook a desolate tract of wide flat moorland,

known as Loch Nell Moss, lying between the blue waters of Loch Etive and

the broad Atlantic. Here various traces have recently been discovered of

the homes and graves of our Pagan ancestors, suggesting dim and shadowy

visions of their life in far remote ages. Half way across the Moss rises

a large cairn, built of rounded water-worn stones, and surrounded by

stunted trees. This has recently been excavated; and in the heart of the

tumulus were found two megalithic chambers, containing human remains and

urns. Also divers white quartz stones, such as various Pagan nations

were wont to bury with their dead, apparently as emblems of purity and

indestructibility, thus possibly conveying some idea of immortality and

of sin forgiven or cancelled, as when the Greeks of old symbolized a

release from some obligation by the giving or receiving of a white

stone,—a custom probably alluded to in the book of Revelations in the

promise “To him that overcometh .... I will give a white stone, and in

the stone a new name written.” Or the allusion may have been to the

ancient form of ballot, when the favoured candidate was known by the

number of white stones which fell to his share. In the present instance,

the white stones were arranged in pairs, on a ledge of rock projecting

above the urns, a single stone being placed at each end of this double

row; another single white pebble was found inside one of the urns.

A considerable number of similar pebbles of white quartz have recently

been discovered in various old British tombs on the Isle of Cambrae, as

also within the Sacred Circle on the Isle of Man; a circle, by the way,

which from time immemorial has been held in such reverence, that to this

day the Parliament of the island is there convened. These pebbles were

also found in most of the old tombs recently excavated in the

neighbourhood of Dundee, in fact so frequent was their presence, that it

was common for the workmen employed in excavating to exclaim, “Here are

the two stones! now we will get the bones.” Rock crystal is sometimes

found in lieu of the white quartz.

As a curious trace of a similar custom in a far-distant land I may

mention that Dr. W. F. Cumming tells me that he found several graves

thus strewed with white pebbles near the temple of Deir, the capital of

Nubia, above the second Cataract of the Nile. A kindred coincidence

(bearing on the religious and funereal rites of our ancestors) is, that

in several tumuli, at Dundee, Inverary, Letcombe Castle in Berks, and

Maiden Castle near Weymouth, there have been found conical stones of

white quartz, each in connection with human remains, and precisely

similar to those found in the excavations at Nineveh which are now to be

seen in the British Museum, the only difference being that the latter

are covered with inscriptions, and representations of serpents and of

the sun and moon.

Turning from these dwellings of the dead to the sunny shores of Loch

Etive, we next come on traces of a lake village, of considerable size,

and in fair preservation. Here, on removing accumulations of peat-moss,

which would seem to have been the growth of twenty, or perhaps thirty

centuries, a series of oval palings were found, still surrounded by

wooden stakes, which doubtless once supported conical thatched roofs,

like those dwellings of the old Gauls described by Strabo as circular,

with lofty tapering roofs of straw. However suggestive to the initiated

are these slight remains of the homes of their ancestors, they offer

small attraction to the general public, compared with the hints of the

ancestral worship recently discovered in Glen Feochan in the rival

district of Loch Nell, which, though bearing the same name as the Moss

aforesaid, lies about three miles on the other side of Oban.

[Illustration: SERPENT-SHAPED MOUND NEAR OBAN. _To face p. 37._]

Here lies a huge serpent-shaped mound, the very existence of which,

strange to say, was utterly unknown to the scientific world till

discovered by Mr. Phené, and by him revealed to the Antiquarian Society

in the summer of 1871. Being in Oban soon afterwards, we lost no time in

setting forth in search of the monster. Half an hour’s drive brought us

to the shores of Loch Nell, beyond which Ben Cruachan proudly rears her

triple crest, standing in dark relief against the delicate white vapours

which cling to her so lovingly, sometimes veiling, sometimes crowning,

this stately queen, as they float around her with ceaseless motion.

The carriage-road winds along the shore, and through broken hummocky

ground, in some places clothed with grass, in others with heather and

bracken; and, but for the presence of one of the few initiated who had

fortunately accompanied us, we should assuredly have passed close below

the heathery mound which forms the Serpent’s tail (in fact, the road has

been cut right across the tip of it), without ever suspecting that it

differed from the surrounding moorland. In short, we should have been no

wiser than our forefathers, who for centuries have passed and repassed

along the same beaten track, whence only an occasional sportsman or

shepherd has had occasion to diverge. It does seem strange, however,

that not one of these, looking down from the higher ground to westward,

should ever have called attention to so remarkable a form, and one,

moreover, which rises so conspicuously from the flat grassy plain, which

stretches for some distance on either side, with scarcely an undulation

save two artificial circular mounds, in one of which lie several large

stones forming a cromlech. These circles are situated a short distance

to the south, to the right of the Serpent, but too far to be shown in

the sketch.

Finding ourselves thus unconsciously in the very presence of the Great

Dragon, we hastened to improve our acquaintance, and in a couple of

minutes had scrambled on to the ridge which forms his backbone, and

thence perceived that we were standing on an artificial mound three

hundred feet in length, forming a double curve like a huge letter S, and

wonderfully perfect in anatomical outline. This we perceived the more

perfectly on reaching the head, which lies at the western end, whence

diverge small ridges, which may have represented the paws of the

reptile. On the head rests a circle of stones, supposed to be emblematic

of the solar disc, and exactly corresponding with the solar circle as

represented on the head of the mystic serpents of Egypt and Phœnicia,

and in the great American Serpent Mound. At the time of Mr. Phené’s

first visit to this spot there still remained in the centre of this

circle some traces of an altar, which, thanks to the depredations of

cattle and herd-boys, have since wholly disappeared. The people of the

neighbourhood have an old tradition that in remote ages this was a place

of public execution, and, from various analogies in the customs of other

nations, it seems likely enough that this was the case, and that this

wild glen may have been to many the valley of the shadow of death,

whether their lives were taken judicially or offered in sacrifice.

The circle was excavated on the 12th October, 1871, and within it were

found three large stones, forming a chamber, which contained burnt human

bones, charcoal, and _charred hazel-nuts_. Surely the spirits of our

Pagan ancestors must rejoice to see how faithfully we, their

descendants, continue to burn our hazel-nuts on Hallow-e’en, their old

autumnal Fire Festival, though our modern divination is practised only

with reference to such a trivial matter as the faith of sweethearts! A

flint instrument was also found, beautifully and minutely serrated at

the edge; nevertheless, it was at once evident, on opening the cairn,

that the place had already been ransacked, probably in secret, by

treasure-seekers, as there is no tradition of any excavation for

scientific purposes having ever been made here.

On the removal of the peat-moss and heather from the ridge of the

serpent’s back, it was found that the whole length of the spine was

carefully constructed with regularly and symmetrically placed stones, at

such an angle as to throw off rain; an adjustment to which we doubtless

owe the preservation, or at least the perfection, of this most

remarkable relic. To those who know how slow is the growth of peat-moss,

even in damp and undrained places, the depth to which it has here

attained, though in a dry and thoroughly exposed situation and raised

from seventeen to twenty feet above the level of the surrounding moss,

tells of many a long century of silent undisturbed growth, since the

days when the Serpent’s spine was the well-worn path daily trodden by

reverent feet. The spine is, in fact, a long narrow causeway, made of

large stones, set like the vertebræ of some huge animal. They form a

ridge sloping off in an angle at each side, which is continued downwards

with an arrangement of smaller stones, suggestive of ribs. The mound has

been formed in such a position that the worshipper standing at the altar

would naturally look eastward, directly along the whole length of the

great reptile, and across the dark lake, to the triple peaks of Ben

Cruachan. This position must have been carefully selected, as from no

other point are the three peaks visible.

This reverence for some Triune object, whether a triple-pointed hill,

the junction of three rivers, or the neighbourhood of three lakes, seems

to have been a marked characteristic of almost every ancient faith. It

was some such dim conception of the worship due to an adorable Trinity

in Unity which led to the almost universal adoption of some sacred

triple symbol, such as the trident of Neptune, which we find again,

placed on the pinnacle of every temple of Siva, and carried in the hands

of his worshippers. It is daily painted on the forehead of every

worshipper of Vishnu, and even reappears as the mystic symbolic letter

painted outside the Phylactery worn on Jewish brows, albeit the wearers

have long since lost all clue to its hidden meaning. Again, we find it

in old drawings of Babylonish priests, who bear it in their hands; and

it has been shown that not only was this symbol held in deepest and most

mysterious reverence in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, but also that

the far-famed idol Juggernaut, representing the same sun-god, is, when

undressed, and shorn of its gorgeous raiment, simply a triple symbol

with a head rudely engraven on the central limb, for the adoration of

the vulgar uninitiated. The idea is further carried out by the fact that

the great Juggernaut is only one of a group of three great idols, his

brother and sister dividing with him the homage of the people. All these

three were, so runs the legend, miraculously fashioned by Vishnu himself

from one divine log of timber. His brother is also endowed with stumps

for arms, so that he also is a triple symbol; but the sister is merely a

rough block of wood, with a head carved thereon.

In truth, this doctrine enters largely into the faith of Hindoostan,

where the worship of the Trimurti, or three principal gods united in one

perfect Being, forms the key-stone of Brahminism. Moreover, we know that

the faithful Hindoos who crowd in such countless multitudes to bathe at

Allahabad, are drawn thither not merely by the sanctity of the junction

of the two great rivers visible to human eye, but by their firm belief

that a third and more holy river of life-giving water here pours its

stream invisibly into the bosom of the Ganges. Perhaps the most singular

instance of reverence for a mystic triple number is to be found where we

would least expect it, namely, among the Buddhists; in whose solemn and

very ancient service for the ordination of priests, each question and

answer, each sacred vow and declaration of faith, must be repeated

thrice. That ordination service is said to have been used without

alteration for upwards of two thousand years, since the days when the

Sanchi Tope (mightiest of Buddhist relic shrines), was reared by the

immediate followers of Buddha, and its gateways crowned with the

mysterious triple symbol.[3] Even in the decorations of modern Buddhist

temples I have often been struck with the recurrence of the threefold

number, both in the grouping of sacred lotus blossoms, and that of

saintly figures, sometimes seated on the clouds,—decorations generally

copied with monkeylike imitation from ancient temples, by modern

priests, ignorant of all hidden meaning in the work of their

predecessors.

The ancient Egyptians likewise believed the Spirit of Good to be

threefold; hence on Theban monuments the gods are shown in groups of

three. Sometimes Osiris, Isis, and their son Horus, are thus grouped;

sometimes in place of Osiris we find Nephthys, sister of Isis. These are

also represented by the figure of a triangle.... Thus too, I am told

(though I know not on what authority), that the Persians of old were

wont to reverence the threefold leaves of the shamrock, as symbolic of a

Divine Triad, to whom this plant was consecrated by the sons of Iran for

many long centuries ere St. Patrick made use of the same green leaf to

exemplify the same mystery to the sons of Erin—a leaf, moreover, to

which they already attached some mysterious meaning, regarding it as a

certain charm against serpents and all venomous reptiles.[4]

In like manner, the Druids (those Ghebres of the West), who venerated

the sacred mistletoe by reason of its mystic triple branches and triple

clusters of white berries, were not likely to overlook so mighty an

embodiment of the same symbol as a great mountain, with its threefold

summit towering heavenward, as if to draw thither the eyes and hearts of

a race who were careful to consecrate all such natural types in their

worship of Nature’s GOD.

It was a knowledge of this tendency that first led Mr. Phené to examine

minutely all the least trodden glens in the neighbourhood of any such

natural features, as for instance round the Eildon and Arran hills,

seeking for traces which should mark the spot as sacred; and in each

case, among other so-called Druidic remains, he has found just such

mounds of reptile form as he was in search of, none however so

remarkable as this strange old Serpent, which for so many centuries has

lain here undisturbed, as if guarding the valley. All of these are more

or less akin to the reptile mounds discovered in Ohio and Wisconsin by

Messrs. Squier and Lapham, always in connection with sacrificial or

sepulchral remains. One of these in particular is of an unmistakeably

serpentine form; and the position of the altar in the circle or oval at

the head of the Serpent is identical with that of this Argyleshire

mound, the head in each case lying towards the west. The American mound

is, however, on a larger scale than its Scotch cousin, being altogether

a thousand feet long. It points towards three rivers, thus indicating

the reverence for the triple symbol,—another instance of which occurs on

the hill known as Lapham’s Peak, on whose lofty summit three artificial

mounds were found, carefully constructed of stone and earth,—materials

which must have been transported thither with very great labour.

Whatever may have been the origin of these huge serpent-shaped mounds,

their existence seems to suggest a clue to the meaning of various

ancient legends concerning enormous serpents which covered acres of

land; the very fact of their dimensions being given in terms of

land-measurement seeming to imply that the writers merely alluded in

poetic terms to Ophite or Dracontic temples where these symbols were

worshipped. Thus we hear of dragons in Mauritania so great that they

were covered with grass. Alexander the Great was taken to see a sacred

dragon five acres in extent, lying in a low valley, surrounded by a high

wall: to this dragon the Indians offered sacrifices of flocks and herds.

Strabo mentions two such dragons in India, one measuring eighty cubits

in length, the other a hundred and forty. And on the plains of Syria,

near the land of snake-adoring Hivites, lay a serpent about an acre in

length, of such bulk that two horsemen riding on either side could not

see each other, while its mouth was so great that a man might ride in

thereat—an experiment not likely to be tried were the reptile a living

creature!

But all these are dwarfed by the legendary Dragon of Damascus, which is

described as a serpent covering fifty acres of land! a description which

Bryant interprets as including a grove and garden round the Ophite

temple. He also quotes Ovid’s account of the serpent Python as covering

several acres, alluding surely, not to the serpent itself, but to that

temple of Delphi which Apollo built with great stones on the spot where

he had slain the Python—a temple which Stukely infers to have been

similar to our own great temple of Avebury or Aubury in Wiltshire, i.e.

a circle whence started two wavy serpentine avenues, forming the Ophite

symbol; and although his theories on this subject are now commonly held

in ridicule, it should at least be remembered that the form was far more

perfect in his day (1723) than it now is, many great stones having been

broken up by farmers in his time, and the work of destruction still

continuing mercilessly when Deane wrote in 1830.

The same ridicule also attaches to those who claim the marvellous temple

of Carnac in Brittany as an instance of serpentine form, and who try to

show that these huge monoliths are arranged in a sinuous course, so as

to describe the figure of a monstrous snake, so vast, indeed, that its

windings are eight miles in length and must have originally been marked

by ten thousand stones, many of those still standing being upwards of

fifteen feet high, while one measures forty-two feet in circumference.

In support of this theory, these Ophite antiquarians tell us that the

peasants of the neighbourhood have an annual dance at the Carnival,

which exactly describes the symbol of the Sun and Serpent. They also say

that Carnac is derived from two words meaning fire and snake, _hac_

being the old Celtic name for the serpent. In confirmation of this, we

are reminded that the common name for snakes in some parts of England is

to this day hag-worms. Hence the name _hag_ to describe an old witch,

supposed to have derived supernatural knowledge from her familiar

spirits—perhaps originally a snake-priestess. The same word occurs in

the Hakpen hills in Wiltshire, and is interpreted as meaning ‘serpent’s

head,’ being the place where the serpentine avenue of Aubury terminates.

The latter name is brought forward as evidence, and shown to be derived

from _aub_ and _ur_, meaning ‘_serpent_’ and ‘light;’ thus exactly

describing the worshipful Sun-Serpent!

It certainly is a fact worthy of notice, that wherever—in Europe, Asia,

Africa, and America—names occur combining the syllables Ob and On (the

Serpent and Sun deities of Egypt and Phœnicia), there these forms of

worship can be proved to have once prevailed; and so it has been

suggested as not impossible, that just as the Israelites called the

first place where they encamped, after the upraising of the brazen

serpent Oboth, the race who built the serpentine mound, terminating in a

solar circle, and who doubtless were settlers from some eastern land,

_may_ have given the name of Ob On, or Oban, to the nearest town.

But whatever disputes may arise concerning these vague derivations, and

the still more vague forms, of the old temples of which we have been

speaking, there can be no doubt whatever of the clearly-defined outlines

of the great mound now before us; though, whether its serpentine (or

rather Saurian) form is to be accepted as any direct proof of serpent

worship in this land, or whether it was simply reverenced as the

representative of some tribe (a Totem, in short, of some extinct British

race answering to the Nagas, or snake tribes, of the East), will

doubtless prove a fertile subject for discussion for many years to come.

Certainly we know that the worship of the serpent and of the serpent’s

egg, by the Druids, is a matter of history; and we are told that they

were wont to place live serpents, as symbols, at the foot of the altar

during the time of sacrifice, a custom common to almost every ancient

nation. In Greece and Rome, Egypt and Chaldea, Arabia and Central Asia,

in China and Thibet, throughout the whole Indian empire from Cachmere to

Cape Comorin, in Ceylon and multitudinous other isles, in Mexico and

Peru, as well as throughout the whole of Africa, the same extraordinary

worship is shown to have prevailed. Passing northward, we find it in

Scythia and Scandinavia, as also among vast tribes near the Oural

mountains and throughout Northern Europe, notably among the tribes on

the Ob or Obi river, which is said to have derived its name from the

reverence in which this reptile was held. The ancient Muscovites and the

people of Poland worshipped domestic serpents, which glided at large in

every home and were reverently tended, all misfortunes being attributed

to some negligence in their service. This continued till the end of the

fourteenth century, when the last heathen duke of Lithuania received

Christian baptism. The people of Lapland, the Fins, Norwegians, Swedes,

and Danes, all cherished these household gods, which shared the

children’s milk! The Vandals also kept domestic snakes; some lived in

hollow trees, and the women went thither to pray, carrying offerings of

milk, as many do at the present day in India and Ceylon. The Lombards

continued to worship a golden viper and a tree long after they were

professedly Christian. It was not till A.D. 663 that Barbatus, Bishop of

Benevento, finding this custom still prevalent, persuaded them to cut

down the tree, and allow him to melt the golden viper, and make thereof

a sacramental chalice.

Deane quotes a curious proof of the homage which was still paid to the

serpent symbol by the semi-Christianized people of Constantinople so

late as the seventeenth century. It seems that Constantine had brought

thither the celebrated serpentine column, or conical tripod, from

Delphi, whereon the Pythian priestess sat when delivering her oracles.

This column was a triple-headed serpent of brass. “When Mahomet II., the

Turkish conqueror of Constantinople, entered the city and beheld this

object, he inquired ‘What idol is that?’ at the same time hurling his

iron mace with such force that he knocked off the lower jaw of one of

the serpent-heads. Upon this, immediately, a great number of serpents

began to be seen in the city; whereupon the people besought him to leave

that image alone, as only through its power no other serpents could

molest them. Wherefore that column remains to this day. And although, in

consequence of the lower jaw of the brazen serpent being struck off,

some serpents do come into the city, yet they do no harm to anyone!”[5]

The ancient Serpent Temples of Cambodia with their many-headed snakes,

and the temples and rock sculptures of India and Ceylon, showing the

hooded cobra rising as a canopy above so many of the gods and

overshadowing even the pure and perfect Buddha, tells how this worship

was gradually idealized. Strange, indeed, it is to trace how the

creature which to us is the very type of all things evil, should there

have been recognized as the embodiment of good, and to find thousands

and tens of thousands of sculptures of that seven-headed snake, which to

its worshippers symbolized their ideal of that Seven-fold Spirit of

Wisdom, Whom Christians adore! For thus in mythology the serpent has

ever filled a double part; sometimes appearing as a meet emblem of the

wisdom of GOD, sometimes as the type of the subtlety of the Arch

Fiend,—one day exalted (as with the Ophites of Alexandria) to a place of

honour even upon the Christian altar; the next hurled down to the

nethermost hell, as when the ancient Scandinavians sang of the dark

shore where the sinful dead found themselves in a dread chilling abode,

formed entirely of serpents, twined and intertwined, fold within fold,

like wattled wickerwork. And all the serpents’ heads were turned inwards

toward that vast and terrible cavern, continually vomiting forth floods

of venom, wherein writhed these wretched ones in their hopeless anguish.

We know that the Chaldeans, like the Chinese, worshipped a winged dragon

as the Being excelling in wisdom; and the Mexicans adored a mighty

feathered snake, as well as the great serpent which symbolized the

life-giving sun.

This divine feathered serpent, who was born of a daughter of Earth, was

the great lawgiver and civilizer who taught the Mexicans, not religion

only, but also agriculture and the use of metals; and when he had

finished his mission on earth he departed, promising to return.

Therefore when the Spaniards arrived in Mexico their coming was hailed

as that of the returning god. In the Mexican mythology, as in those of

Egypt and Greece, the Serpent appears as emblematic of so many divers

gods, that he is evidently considered a symbol of the intrinsic divinity

common to them all. Nor was his worship only symbolic. Both in Mexico

and Peru there were great snake temples, where the living creature was

adored and received offerings of human victims. The entrance to the

temples was guarded by huge serpent idols, while the sacred drums

whereby the worshippers were summoned were covered with skins of large

serpents, and the gods within the temples were all entwined with

serpents.

A cast of one of their idols was brought to this country—the figure

being partly human, while the hands and arms are rattlesnakes; and the

drapery is entirely composed of wreathed rattlesnakes woven into what

the Mexicans called a garment of snakes. It is to be hoped that this

deadly species was not included among the tame serpents which glided at

large in every home as household gods! Some of the Mexican sculptures

show human beings conversing with the serpent, while others show a

conflict between them, the victor being sometimes a man, sometimes a

god; in one, the god is cutting off a dragon’s head, but not till the

dragon has bitten off his foot at the heel.

The Spaniards recorded very similar forms of worship in Peru, where in

one temple they saw a vast image of a serpent of divers metals, with his

tail in his mouth, to which annual human sacrifice was offered. At

another temple they were told how ‘the devil did speak visibly,’ the

medium of his oracles being a spotted snake. The Aztecs, like the

Hindoos, reverenced the serpent biting his own tail as the emblem of

eternity—the symbol of time ever revolving on itself and returning into

itself. They also held the casting of the serpent skin as symbolic of an

ever-renewed youth and spring-tide.

To give the names of the gods to whom the symbolic serpent was held

sacred would be to enumerate well-nigh every deity in the mythology of

every ancient nation, this being the one only characteristic common to

all these faiths; a circumstance that would be utterly unaccountable on

any theory other than that of some tradition common to all, such as that

of the Serpent of Paradise. It is easy to perceive how quickly the

belief in his supernatural wisdom would lead to his worship; and thus

from age to age the arch-enemy has kept up his character as serpent

tempter, inducing all mankind to yield abject veneration and adoration

to the repulsive reptile whose form he had once assumed.

Of course, the earliest traces of this worship are to be looked for in

Chaldea; and accordingly we find that in the great temple in Babylon

there were two very large serpents of silver. Moreover the people

worshipped a great living dragon (or serpent, for the two words are used

promiscuously by old writers, as when, in Bœotia, a _dragon_ had laid

waste the town of Thespiæ, and Jupiter commanded that an annual human

sacrifice should be offered to the _Serpent_. Or again, in biblical

language, we read in the Revelations that “The great _dragon_ was cast

out; that old _Serpent_ called the Devil, which deceiveth the whole

world.”) In ancient Persia both the good and the evil principle (Ormuzd

and Ahriman) were symbolized by serpents, which were represented

contending for the mundane egg. In Mesopotamia, in Syria, in Ethiopia,

they were likewise held in reverence, and it is asserted by various

writers that to this day both Arabs and Hindoos eat the heart and liver

of serpents, hoping thereby to acquire a knowledge of the language of

animals. The same curious notion gave rise to the old Celtic legends

concerning that pure white serpent, which, if caught and boiled, would

confer the gift of omniscience on the first man who tasted this broth,

and who would moreover become the wisest of doctors.

Akin to this is the old Greek fable, telling how, when Melampus had

saved the lives of two snakes they came to him as he slept under an oak,

and licked his ears, whereupon he was able to understand the chirping of

birds, and was gifted with prophecy. The same gift of prophecy was

bestowed when serpents ‘with their tongues cleansed the passages of the

senses’ of sleepers in the temple of Apollo, and made them so sharp of

hearing that they could hearken to the counsel of the gods. Others

requited certain blind men who had done them service by licking their

eyes, and so bestowing on them sight far keener than any human vision.

The primitive inhabitants of Canaan were also snake-worshippers (indeed,

their name, Hivite, is said to be equivalent to the Greek Ophite).

Hence, when the Hebrews intermarried with these tribes, and served their

gods, they in fact adopted this worship, which accounts for the

readiness with which veneration for the brazen serpent led to actual

adoration and burning incense thereto, so that Hezekiah was compelled to

destroy it, with other idols. Undoubtedly, faith in the supernatural

knowledge of the creature lingered in Palestine till much later days, as

we gather from the frequent allusions to consulting ‘those that have

familiar spirits,’ an expression which should rather be translated[6]

‘serpents,’ the word used (Ob or Oub) being the same as describes the

serpent worshipped in Egypt. Passing on thither, we find the same

wide-spread superstition. That this worship was coeval with that of the

sun is shown by the earliest Egyptian mythology, relating how Helius,

the Sun-god, married Ops, the Snake-goddess. Though peculiarly

consecrated to three or four of the principal gods, there is scarcely

one Egyptian deity which is not occasionally symbolized by the serpent,

and the living reptiles were adored in great temples at Elephantina,

Thebes, Alexandria, Onuphis, and Metele, where they were fed with flour

and honey by their appointed priests.

There is reason to believe that this strange worship still contrives to

continue its existence in the land, in spite of the rigorous laws of

Mohammedanism. Bishop Pocock mentions having been shown a cleft in a

rock on the Nile, near Raigny, where the great serpent Heredy is said to

have dwelt since the days of Mahomet. Against the rock is built a

mosque, but the Bishop noticed much blood, and the remains of beasts

lately killed, which clearly told their story of recent sacrifice to the

Serpent. He says the Christians have as great faith as the Mohammedans

in its power to cure all manner of diseases, and adds, that, once a

year, the women of the land go a pilgrimage to his shrine, to seek his

favour, as the Grecian women of old were wont to do to their serpent

gods.

In the mythology of Greece there is scarcely one fable in which the

serpent does not figure, nor one god which is not thus symbolized. First

we have Cadmus slaying his famous dragon, and planting its teeth, which

spring up as armed men, and build Thebes. Then Cadmus and his wife are

themselves transformed into serpents, and as such are adored by the

people. Next comes the founding of Athens by Cecrops, whose first care

is to erect an altar to Ops, the serpent-goddess. One fable after

another tells how divers gods temporarily assumed the form of either a

dragon or a serpent for reasons of their own, generally in order to win

some maiden of earthly mould. Sometimes we find the serpent entwining

the helmet or the mystic staff of sage Minerva; then he figures in the

drunken revels of Bacchus and Isis. Health-giving Esculapius and his

sister Hygeia are both invariably accompanied by serpents, sometimes

coiled in the lap, or drinking from a chalice, sometimes carried on high

like the brazen serpent of the Israelites. Now we have Jupiter taking

the form of a “dragon” to deceive Proserpine. Then Apollo, the sun-god,

slays the Pythian serpent, and himself gives oracles at Delphi, which

were previously revealed by that creature of supernatural wisdom, in

whose honour solemn services were held _every seventh day_.

The latter is a curious fact when taken in connection with the existence

of certain Greek sculptures, whereon the serpent is shown entwined in

the branches of a tree, with a woman standing by, and seems another link

connecting this worship with the traditions of Eden. It occurs again in

Orissa, where, at Surabulpore, there lives, or did live a few years ago,

a great and holy serpent, seen by various European travellers, which

came forth from its cave _every seventh day_ to devour a goat offered to

it by the people. Another of these sculptures[7] represents a man

kneeling near the woman, as if worshipping the serpent; while on the

other side old Charon approaches, leading Cerberus to guard the tree.

Live serpents were kept and honoured in the dominions of all the Grecian

gods. In Macedonia serpents of largest growth were cherished as

household gods, and were the playfellows of the infant children. One was

kept in the Acropolis, and consecrated to Minerva, on the walls of whose

temples were sculptured Medusa’s heads, fair and beautiful, with

snake-entwined hair. There were sacred groves adjoining most of the

principal temples of Apollo, both in Greece and Italy, where living

serpents were attended by priestesses, and suffered to glide about at

their own sweet will, consuming honey-cakes, delivering oracular

responses to all comers, and occasionally killing a priestess who, with

heedless foot, chanced to molest one of her slippery gods.

The husbandmen annually made solemn pilgrimages to these temples, and

offered propitiatory sacrifices to the serpents, supplicating a good

harvest. If the reptiles were pleased to accept their offerings of cake

and wine, the omen was hailed with gladness. It would seem as if the

original curse of the ground and its produce for the serpent’s sake, had

led to the belief that he who had brought about such mischief still

exerted some mysterious influence, whereby he had power to regulate the

produce of the earth and her fruits. Hence the Chariot of Ceres, goddess

of agriculture, was drawn by serpents, and throughout Hindoostan the

serpent is to this day adored as one of the _Gram Deotas_, or corn-gods,

to whom special sacrifice is made at seed-time and harvest.

The head of the serpent has now been so far bruised that his nominal

adherents are comparatively few. Perhaps the most curious instance of

his open and avowed worship in the present day, among a people

professing high civilization, is to be found among the Celestials, who,

Buddhists though they be, cannot allow so dangerous a power to remain

unpropitiated. Their edition of the old legend tells of a wicked serpent

whose head was crushed by a woman; and in their temples they represent a

goddess in the act of crushing the reptile. But on the principle of

always conciliating evil, they offer sacrifices, not to the good

goddess, but to the wicked snake; and in the city of Canton there is at

least one temple where, in the very presence of Buddha’s statues, is an

altar whereon smoulder warm coals, round which lies coiled a living

serpent, which is daily fed and worshipped by the people. Near him on

the same raised altar are placed certain sacred shrubs; so here we find

the old tree and serpent worship still lingering in the heart of this

great populous city.

But to see it in its glory we must turn to such purely uncivilised

savages as the Fiji Islanders, or the negroes of Dahomey, over whom the

serpent continues to hold sway, just as he probably has done from the

earliest ages. Bishop Crowther, writing from one of the Niger Mission

Stations, says that it is impossible to rear either goats, sheep, young

pigs, or any sort of poultry, by reason of the multitude of cobras,

which, being considered sacred by the Brass-men, must on no account be

killed, but are allowed to overrun the country and help themselves to

whatever they please! A still more curious reference to this fact occurs

in Britain’s treaty with the natives, made in November, 1856, which

contains a clause stating that, owing to the hindrance to trade, from

white men having in their ignorance killed certain species of boa

constrictors which enter houses and are considered sacred, and having

thus excited the anger of the Brass-men, “it is hereby forbidden to all

British subjects to harm or destroy any such snake, but they are

required, on finding the reptile on the premises, to give notice thereof

to the chief man in town, who is to come and remove it.” Just imagine

letting a boa constrictor disappear under your bed while the authorities

are providing an honorary escort for their god!

All along the western coast of Africa the serpent holds sway, more

especially in Congo and Whidah, where the chief temple is called “The

Serpent’s House.” Here a great retinue of priests and priestesses,

subject to a high priest, await to interpret the serpentine oracles to

all anxious pilgrims. We are told that these priestesses are called the

daughters of God, and are tattooed with serpentine figures. When Bosman

visited these tribes in 1697, he was duly impressed with the pomp and

ceremonial of the temples, but chiefly with the fanaticism of the

worshippers; for, an Englishman having accidentally killed a snake, the

people rose _en masse_, and massacred all white men on whom they could

lay hands, after which they burned their bodies _and their goods_.

Shortly afterwards a hog chanced to kill another snake, whereupon a

thousand armed Whidanese went forth, sword in hand, throughout the land,

to slay every luckless pig they met! Their tradition of this ancient

faith is that in remote days a sacred serpent came to them from some

remote land, to claim their adoration, which was freely given. This old

serpent still lives, and all his descendants are unspeakably holy. They

combine this worship with that of tall trees and the ocean. The custom

is not peculiar to these tribes. It is the common practice of all the

negro race in every emergency to consult an Obi man or Obi woman, just

as Saul in his troubles sought a woman full of “Ob;” that is, possessed

of a familiar spirit, or serpent of wisdom.

On the eastern coast the serpent holds a less prominent place, and, as

among the Zulus is simply reverenced as a probable incarnation of their

ancestral spirits, whom they do worship, and in whose guardianship they

have full confidence. Hence in describing the good or evil that has

befallen them, they attribute it to the watchfulness or neglect of their

snake; either they suppose him to be sitting up wide awake, or else they

mournfully conclude that he is coiled up in deep sleep. The appearance

of certain snakes in their villages, more especially one beautiful green

variety, is hailed with joy; sacrifices are offered to him, and he is

coaxed to stay there as a welcome guest.

In Cashmere the worship of the Naga was formerly so prevalent that in

the time of Akbar, A.D. 1560, there were in that kingdom forty-five

temples devoted exclusively to his service, while in seven hundred

others were carved images of him, which received due share of

adoration.[8] To this day the descendants of the Naga tribes of Cashmere

are remarkable for their medical skill and possession of healing arts

and nostrums, which their ancestors, in common with Esculapius, received

from the health-giving serpent. The same skill in healing is attributed

to him by many nations. The Celts acquired their medical lore by

drinking serpent-broth; the Mexicans hung snake-bones round the neck of

the sick; in Pegu, at the birth of a child, a snake’s tongue is tied

within a tiny bell and hung round the baby’s neck as a preventive of

sickness and harm. And in many parts of India it is customary, in cases

of illness, to make a serpent of clay or metal, _literally_ a brazen

serpent, and offer sacrifice to it on behalf of the sufferer.

In the mythology of Hindoostan, as in that of many other lands, the

serpent maintains his two-fold character—sometimes as a power of good,

sometimes of evil. Even where he is not ostensibly worshipped, he

appears in connection with the gods, either as a symbol of Siva, the

lord of life, or twined round the neck or arms of Vishnu, Juggernaut,

Mahadeo, Parvati, and others; sometimes he is coiled up as a couch

whereon the god slumbers, the head of the cobra (sometimes single,

sometimes five-fold, sometimes seven-fold) forming a protecting canopy.

On the other hand, in the Hindoo hell, as in that of Scandinavia, there

are living walls of poisonous serpents, intertwined in horrible

contortions. And we know that the chief feat of Krishna was to slay the

wicked serpent Kaliya, which, nevertheless, continues to receive a

certain share of worship, just as the Pythian snake was adored at

Delphi, even by the worshippers of Apollo, its destroyer, on the

principle that powers of evil must be conciliated.

The open and avowed worship of the serpent lingered in Southern India

long after it had ostensibly been driven out from the north by the Aryan

conquerors. Thus a richly jewelled image of the seven-headed Naga is one

of the three principal gods in the great temple at Maduva. Till very

recently it was retained in Ceylon, but even there has latterly fallen

into discredit, though it is undoubtedly not extinct. Indeed, within the

last few years, there was a snake temple on the small adjacent island of

Nainativoe, where the priests daily fed a multitude of sacred cobras;

and I am told that on the isle of Tranative, off Jaffna, there is still

a temple sacred to cobras, where living reptiles glide about and are

tended by priests and priestesses. The natives on the north-west coast

of Ceylon showed us black seeds with sharp points, which they call

“naga-darana,” or snake’s fangs. These they lay as propitiatory

offerings near the hiding-place of any serpent. Their objection to

killing a snake, or allowing us to do so, was always very great, and if

they could possibly allow it to escape they generally did so. One of our

friends, whose house at the mouth of a beautiful river attracted our

especial admiration, told us it had only one drawback, namely, the

multitude of covered baskets containing cobras which the people living

farther up the stream floated off from their own lands and which

constantly were washed ashore in his garden! How strange it did seem to

us, while, with an irrepressible shudder, we watched these creatures

wriggling along in their horrid coils, to remember that we were looking

on the gods of our forefathers—the creature, above all others, whose

worship has been most universal!

Although the living serpent has ceased to hold a prominent place in

public worship, it is still, as we have seen, recognised in all villages

throughout Hindoostan as the principal corn-god,[9] to whom sacrifice is

offered at seed-time and in harvest, and at all other times when rain or

fair weather is unseasonably delayed. Even the Brahmins (!) join in

these snake festivals and receive their share of the offerings. Some

even carry a snake-skin in their holy books. The chief festival is held

just after the season when the snake, having cast its skin, comes forth

in renewed beauty.

In the native almanacs the fifth day of Srawan is noted as the birthday

of the Naga king, and the day whereon serpents must be worshipped. So

the people draw a serpentine figure on their houses, and do homage

thereto. Then they adjourn to the nearest rocks or trees where serpents

are known to live, and which are marked by small cairns smeared with red

or black paint. They plant sticks near the hole, and, winding white

cotton thread round them, hang up festoons of fragrant flowers; then

they lay offerings of fruit, sugar, ghee, and flour round the hole, into

which they pour milk, or lay it in saucers. Then the women, joining

hands, circle five times round the snake’s dwelling, after which they

prostrate themselves, and anxiously await his appearing to know whether

their gift is graciously accepted. Should the serpent prove sulky, the

omen is dire indeed. He receives similar bribes in all times of

sickness. Moreover, when a child is first shaved, after teething or

other infantile ailments, the hair is generally offered to some serpent,

the Brahmins being present to sanction proceedings which they cannot

prevent, and to accept small offerings.

This being the case, it is natural that the natives should strongly

object to killing a snake if they can by any possibility drive him away.

Like the people of Ceylon, they infinitely prefer to catch him alive,

and carry him by night to the lands of the next village, where they turn

him adrift. If, however, compelled to kill him, they put a copper pice

in his mouth and give him a funeral pyre, and, while burning his body,

assure him that they are guiltless of his blood; that they slew him by

command of their masters, or because they could not otherwise prevent

his biting their chickens or their children.

These serpent funerals must latterly have given a good deal of trouble

to the natives of certain districts, where the destruction of these

reptiles amounts to quite a large item in government expenses. At

Burdwan, for instance, the sum of thirty thousand rupees (three thousand

pounds) has been paid to the snake-killers within a wonderfully short

time, and it is devoutly to be hoped that the desire of gain may induce

the natives to overcome their superstitions and attack their common foe

in real earnest. It has been suggested that a graduated scale of reward

should be offered for different species of snakes, varying with the

deadliness of their bite, the highest sum being of course given for the

cobra—at once the most sacred and the most dangerous—to whose fang are

attributed one-fourth of the annual deaths from snake-bite. These, as a

total, are annually estimated at from eleven to twenty thousand, in a

population of one hundred and twenty millions. It is hoped that a

judicious addition of strychnine and carbolic acid to the offerings of

milk and sugar placed at the entrance to the nest of the reptile, may

prove among the most efficacious means of ridding the country of this

pest.

In our own British Isles comparatively few traces of such reverence are

to be found; yet, considering how commonly the adoration of sun and

serpent are linked together, and that both are said to have been

reverenced by the Druids, it is worthy of note that, till within the

last century, all manner of customs for the good of the crops[10] were

kept up on the days which in olden times were observed as sun-festivals.

Moreover, in the shadowy mythology of early Britain we hear of a god Hu,

who was worshipped as the dragon ruler of the world, and whose car was

drawn by serpents: there was also a goddess Ceridwen answering to Ceres,

who had a car similarly yoked with a serpentine team.[11] Similar

inference may be drawn from a very curious old Bardic poem, concerning

Uther Pendragon, the Wonderful Dragon,[12] descriptive of the religious

rites of the early English, wherein the worshipper, while calling on

Bel, the dragon king, describes himself as making the orthodox turn

sunwise, first round the consecrated lake, then round the sanctuary,

whereon is depicted the _gliding king_ pursuing the fair one; while

within the sacred circle of huge stones the great dragon, evidently a

living serpent, moves round over the vessels containing the

drink-offering, whence it may be inferred that the British Druids, like

the Syrian Ophites, and Egyptian worshippers of Isis and Bacchus,

encouraged the serpent to glide over the gifts on the altar. Mr. Deane

notices, as a curious coincidence, that the word _draig_ here translated

dragon, signifies also the supreme god. Also that, in one of these

poems, the priest enumerates his own titles as a Druid, a prophet, a

serpent. Hence it seems probable that the numerous legends which tell of

the early Christian saints having conquered serpents, as when St. Hilda

changed all the Yorkshire snakes into Ammonites, when St. Patrick

banished them from Ireland, and St. Columba from Iona, while St. Keyna

changed those of Somersetshire into upright stones, had reference to the

conversion or expulsion of their worshippers.

It may be that the great mound lying before us beside the dark mountain

tarn may have been just such a temple as this old bard describes, and

that within the circle of stones a living serpent may in truth have

glided over the offerings of a people, taught by these priests of an

Oriental faith to unite this worship with that of the great Day Star,

and who day by day gathered round this strange altar, while watching for

the first streak of dawn in the eastern sky—the first glowing ray which,

gilding Ben Cruachan’s triple peak, told them that the great Sun-god had

once more arisen to gladden the earth. Perhaps we ought rather to say

Sun-goddess, inasmuch as sun and mountain are alike feminine in the

Gaelic tongue.

It is a strange vision that rises before us, as our fancy pictures this

gloomy valley beside the dark waters, not silent and solitary as now,

but thronged with worshippers congregating from every remote corner of

the hills to witness the awful sacrifices which white-robed priests with

shaven crowns offered upon the mystic altar, in presence of the mountain

and the dragon.

Whatever may have been the true origin of this snake reverence in

Britain, certain it is that in countless old Gaelic legends of the West

Coast and of the Hebrides, the serpent holds a place of such importance

as we can hardly imagine to have been acquired by such puny

representatives of the race as are to be found on our British moors,

though we are bound to confess that Ben Cruachan does give shelter to an

unwonted multitude of small adders. And although Hugh Miller tells of

the existence of fossil Saurians in the Isle of Eigg, we can hardly give

our ancestors credit for pushing their geological researches so far, or

for tracing their traditions from such pre-Adamite sources. It certainly

is remarkable that almost all these legends are also to be found in the

folk-lore of India and Persia.

Thus the story of how Fraoch, for the sake of his golden-haired love,

fought with, and killed, and was killed by, a terrible water-snake which

infested Loch Awe, has its counterpart in the history of Krishna, the

Indian Sun-god, who for love of the pretty milk-maids, fought a terrible

battle _à l’outrance_ with the black water-serpent, which poisoned the

blue waters of the sacred Jumna, coming up thence to devour the herds

which pastured between Muttra and Bindrabund. More fortunate than

Fraoch, Krishna slew his foe without receiving dire injury himself,

though his heel was bitten in the conflict. When the dragon was dead,

his carcase dried up, and became a mountain, whereon children played in

peace, a happy termination to the story, and one which possibly alluded

to some serpent or dragon-shaped mound, which may have existed on the

shores of the Jumna, just as this does here, on the brink of Loch Nell.

The Indian story goes on to tell that men and animals afterwards sought

refuge with Krishna within the serpent’s head—a story which seems to

refer to some custom of sacrifice, or possibly of self-immolation, and

which tallies curiously with the Gaelic tradition before alluded to,

which points out the Argyleshire Serpent Mound as an ancient place of

execution or sacrifice. Similar to these legends of Fraoch and of

Krishna, is that told in the old Gothic mythology, where Thor fights the

great serpent and bruises his head, but in so doing is himself brought

on one knee; finally he slays his foe, but at the expense of his own

life; for at the close of the conflict he falls back dead, overpowered

by the suffocating venom which the dying serpent vomits forth. We find

the same legend again in the battle of Perseus with the sea monster; of

Hercules with the hydra; Apollo with the python, and many another

dragon-myth, with our own St. George, of course, at the head of the

list; always the same story of a mighty holy power which does battle

with evil, and finally destroys the destroyer—though too often at the

cost of the deliverer’s own life.

In all these nations we find the same strange anomaly—the worship of a

creature—which, according to their own traditions, represents a

conquered power of evil. For there is scarcely a land which has not some

tradition of the Fall, and promised Redemption. Egypt and Hindoostan,

Greece and Persia, Scandinavia and Mexico, all tell of a vanquished

serpent and a triumphant hero (son of a celestial father and a

terrestrial mother), who, after victory, is numbered with the gods; all

recognise the seed of the woman bruising, yet bruised, in the conflict.

For only by suffering does the victor conquer; most often he is bitten

in the heel, and so dies, as did the Krishna of the Hindoos, who is

generally represented crushing with his foot the head of the great

serpent. Even Apollo, though unscathed by the python, was compelled to

depart from the world for nine revolutions of the years, after which he

might return in glory, purified, to take possession of his temple.

I have already alluded to those Gaelic legends wherein a white snake

figures in connection with medicinal lore. Thus when a nest of seven

serpents is discovered, containing six brown adders and one pure white

one, the latter caught and boiled, confers the gift of omniscience on

the first man who tastes of this serpent-“bree” (broth), and who

thereafter becomes the wisest of doctors. Whether this strange story is

traceable to the worship of Esculapius, or the Brazen Serpent, or to

some tradition older still, it is remarkable that we should find it here

at all. This identical story occurs also in the German folk-lore.

In all old Gaelic legends great reverence was always due to the white

snake, which was described as the king of snakes. It is believed by some

of the old Highlanders still to exist in the land—a faith which is

occasionally confirmed by the appearance of a silvery grey specimen. In

Ceylon a silvery white snake is sometimes found, which the natives

likewise recognise as the king of the cobras, and venerate exceedingly.

I have myself seen one of these, the sanctity of which was duly

impressed on me. The Arabs of Mount Ararat have also a story of a great

white snake, and of a royal race of serpents, to which all others do

homage.

Perhaps the most curious of all these links to Eastern tradition are

those which seem most directly connected with Egypt—such as the legend

quoted by Sir Walter Scott in “The Abbot,” telling how the serpent or

dragon pursued Sabœa, daughter of the king of Egypt—a story so popular

in this country that it was a favourite subject for the mummers, and

thus figured in one of the oldest pastimes in Scotland. This Egyptian

lady is said to reappear again and again in our folk-lore, and sundry

legends tell of her landing on Scottish shores and converting the

people, though in what new form of faith she instructed them does not

appear. Certain it is, that according to both Scotch and Irish

chronicles, it was from an Egyptian princess named Scota that the great

nation of the Scots claim descent; and it was from her, moreover, that

they received that mystic coronation stone whereon from time immemorial

all Scottish Sovereigns, including Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen

Victoria, have of necessity been seated when assuming the Royal Crown.

This stone is described in the ancient chronicles of the Picts and Scots

as “Pharaoh’s stone from Egypt;” and they further state that its

earliest resting-place in Scotland was at Beregonium—a famous settlement

of the Dalriad Scots, on Loch Etive, whence it was next removed to the

strong tower of Dunstaffnage.

The mention of these names suggests so strong a local interest that I

must give you a general summary of the various forms of the legend,

which traces back the history of this venerated stone through all its

wanderings, starting from the plains of Luz, where, on one memorable

night some four thousand years ago, it served as the pillow whereon

Jacob rested his weary head while beholding the vision of angels. Thence

it was carried into Egypt by the Israelites as a precious memorial, and

there it was left by them on the night of their hurried departure from

the land of their captivity, but continued to be held in reverence by

the Egyptians. Now there was a certain Prince of Athens named Gathelus,

who arrived in Egypt in search of a wife, just at the time of the

Exodus, and claimed the hand of Scota, the beautiful daughter of

Pharaoh. Here, I must tell you, the chronicles confuse generations—the

Irish version describing the Greek Prince as Nel, and Gathelus as his

son.[13]

The young couple seem to have had a wholesome terror of the plagues

wherewith Egypt had been scourged, and determined to seek a new home;

so, taking with them a handful of the Egyptian army which had escaped

from the destruction of the Red Sea, and a company of Greek “heroes of

dark blue weapons,” they made their way to Spain, carrying with them the

Israelite stone of good omen. They founded a kingdom at Brigantium,

where, according to one account, they lived and died, and their

descendants for many generations were crowned on the mystic stone; till

at length, about the year B.C. 580, Simon Breck, a younger son of one of

these kings of Spain, determined to found a new kingdom for himself, and

having carried off the precious regal stone, he made his way to the

shores of Ireland, “ane rude island opposite to Spaine, in the north,

inhabited by ane rude people, having neither laws nor manners.” He

called this people Scoti, after the name of his Egyptian ancestress, and

the land Hibernia, after his favourite general Hiber. Another version of

the story tells how Scota herself came in person to the Emerald Isle,

and so captivated the sons of Erin by her beauty and her grace, that in

her honour they thenceforth adopted the name of Scoti, and called their

land Ibernia, after her son Iber.

Thus the Stone of Luz was brought to figure in the story of the Irish

Kings. Time wore on, and we next hear of it, when a later descendant of

Scota, Fergus I., son of Ferchard, sailed across the stormy seas, and

established a new colony of Scots in Argyleshire, where he built the

town called Beregonium. Of course, he did not fail to bring with him the

mysterious stone, which his ancestors had held in such honour from

generation to generation. Here, however, it found but a temporary

resting-place, for already the fame of Iona, the Druid’s Holy Isle, made

Fergus decide on going thither for his coronation. Once more, therefore,

this migratory stone was embarked, that its presence might sanction the

ceremony. Thus it reached Iona about A.D. 530. We next hear of it in

A.D. 597, when Columba—like Jacob of old—adopted it as his stony pillow,

and thereon rested his sacred head when he slept the sleep of death.

Then, for the second time, this wondrous stone became associated with

angelic visions; for as the dark shades of death were closing round him,

St. Columba beheld bright angels coming down from heaven, and their

presence filled the little church with unearthly light—a light whose

splendour illuminated the whole sky, while the angelic guard wafted the

saintly soul from the Holy Isle to the place prepared for it in Heaven.

Soon after St. Columba’s death, the venerated treasure was removed to

Evonium (now called Dunstaffnage) by Evenus, one of the shadowy

Dalriadic kings, who built his tower on the same site as the mighty

ruined fortress of later days now stands. A hollow niche in one of the

vaults is pointed out as the resting-place of this well-guarded

treasure.

At Dunstaffnage the wandering stone seems to have remained undisturbed

till the year A.D. 834, when its travels recommenced, and it was removed

to Scone by Kenneth II. to commemorate his having there obtained his

chief victory over the Picts. At Scone, as we all know, it was suffered

to remain till 1296, when Edward I. transported it to London, and

deposited it in its present honourable position in the grand old Abbey

of Westminster, where to this day it still retains its old king-making

prerogative, and lies in a hollow space beneath the seat of King

Edward’s wooden coronation chair, whence it continues to impart its

mystic virtue to every British sovereign. To the outward eye it appears

only to be a rough block of red sandstone rudely squared, and measuring

26 inches in length, 16¾ inches in breadth, and 10½ inches in depth. Its

cracked and battered appearance tells of many a chance blow received in

the course of its wanderings, while the rusty iron rings attached on

either side to facilitate its transport, are also suggestive of its many

migrations from kingdom to kingdom.

A strangely-suggestive link, in truth, is this time-honoured symbol of

royalty, connecting ages far apart by one curious bond, namely, the

utterly unaccountable reverence for a poor battered old stone, the

history and origin of which are alike matter of vaguest tradition, and

which, nevertheless, retains its position, deeply-rooted in the very

heart of our monarchic constitution, connecting the stateliest ceremony

of modern England with the earliest trace of superstitious homage paid

to the rude warrior chiefs of the Dalriad Scots, or our still more

shadowy ancestral princes of Ireland; a stone, in short, which has been

the silent witness, as well as the authority for, the coronation of each

successive generation in these isles for upwards of 2,400 years. Even

Cromwell, grim destroyer of all monuments of superstition, did not

disdain to borrow a legalising virtue from the old stone, for we are

told that “when he was installed as Lord Protector in Westminster Hall,

he was placed in the chair of Scotland, brought out of Westminster Abbey

for that singular and special occasion.”

The Dean of Westminster, speaking of its present position in his grand

old abbey, compares it to “Araunah’s rocky threshing-floor in the midst

of the Temple of Solomon, carrying back our thoughts to races and

customs now almost extinct; an element of poetic, patriarchal, heathen

times; a link which unites the throne of England with the traditions of

Tara and Iona, and connects the charm of our complex civilization with

the forces of Mother Earth, the stocks and stones of savage Nature.”

But stranger still are the low dreamy whispers from far-distant lands

and a long-forgotten past, which tradition murmurs concerning this

venerable relic. One ingenious writer, who has lately striven to prove

the identity of the lost Israelites with the Anglo-Saxons—a race whose

name and history can be traced no farther back than the time when they

migrated from the banks of the Araxes; that is to say, from the very

region where we lose all trace of the lost sheep of the house of Israel;

and who thus claims an Israelitic origin for the British race, beholding

in the prosperity of England and her vast colonies a literal fulfilment

of all God’s promises to Israel, as distinct from the Jews; the

fulfilment in short of God’s covenant with his servant Jacob, when He

promised that his seed should be as the dust of the earth for multitude,

and should spread abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the north,

and to the south; a prophecy, by the way, which certainly does seem to

apply to the Anglo-Saxons better than to any other race, and one

moreover which the Church of England seems unconsciously to have taken

home to herself, in that she teaches her children to pray for blessings

on themselves as “God’s chosen people,” and special inheritance[14]—this

writer, I say, points triumphantly to the miraculous preservation of

this rude stone as that very pillar of witness which, transported from

its far-distant home at Bethel to its present place of honour in

England’s noblest temple, the abbey founded by her great Saxon king,

Edward the Confessor, has become the most precious treasure of the

English monarchy, while still retaining to popular name of “Jacob’s

Pillow.”[15]

He, however, ignores the tradition of the Egyptian princess, and quotes

another old chronicle to show that the Lia Fáil, or Stone of Destiny,

was brought direct to Ireland about the year B.C. 580, by the Tuatha de

Danan, whom he believes to have been the tribe of Dan. He recognises in

Simon Breck the Hebrew prophet Baruch, whom he believes to have escaped

from Egypt in the ships of Dan,[16] in company with Jeremiah and the

daughters of the King of Judah, one of whom, on reaching Ireland,

bestowed her royal hand on the Ulster prince, bringing as her dower the

king-making stone, whereon he was straightway crowned. Thus came the

house of David to reign in these isles, and thus it came to pass that

the Pillow of Jacob continues to this day to lend its mystic sanction to

the existence of the British monarchy. Mr. Glover also quotes an Irish

prophetic rune, purporting to have been uttered by one of the wandering

Israelites aforesaid, asserting that,—

“Unless the Fates are faithless grown,

And prophet’s voice be vain,

Where’er is found this sacred stone,

The Wanderer’s Race shall reign”—

thereby of course proving our Most Gracious Queen to be a lineal

descendant of the fugitive maid of Judah!

But to return from this Israelitish phase of the story to that version

which tells of our Egyptian ancestress, and of her journey westward,

bearing “Pharaoh’s stone from Egypt,” I regret to say that Mr. W. Skene

has striven to bring his usual painful historical accuracy to bear on

this charming legend, in order to prove that it was never heard of prior

to the year 1301, when Baldred Bisset quotes it in presence of the Pope,

while pleading the cause of Scottish independence of English rule. So

instead of giving Bisset credit for his knowledge of antiquarian lore,

he assumes that he must have invented the story then and there to suit

his own purposes. Skene also balances one old chronicle against another,

hoping thereby to disprove the history of the stone’s wanderings, and

showing that it was lying quietly at Scone during all the time of its

reputed travels. Nevertheless, we retain our good old version of the

story, as revealing the true and indisputable history of our early

connection with Egypt, and of how the Scots bear the name of the

Egyptian princess Scota, and their Gaelic tongue that of Gathelus. And

as to her Greek prince Nel, why here is a whole district bearing his

name, though ignorant men will persist in declaring that Loch Nell only

means Loch of the Swans; and to crown all, here, by the shores of this

lonely loch, there remains to this day a huge mysterious serpent-shaped

mound, about which nobody knows anything, and which certainly has no

sort of resemblance to any other mound in the kingdom.

One after another these quaint legends rose to our minds as we looked

down on the grim old guardian of Glen Feochan revealing himself

alternately as a thing of darkness and of light, in every changing

aspect of the hour. Now and then a sharp sudden shower swept over the

hills, casting deep cloud-shadows on land and loch; then the sun once

more burst forth, shedding a golden glory over the purples, browns and

golds of the manytinted moorland But the dragon cared neither for sun

nor showers. He lay still in his place, couching by the waters, and

keeping ceaseless vigil just as he has already done for centuries

untold, and as doubtless he will continue to do, till some mighty

convulsion shall shake the strong foundations of the earth, and bury him

beneath the tumbled fragments of the hills.