CHAPTER V.

MODERN CHIPS OF THE OLD BLOCKS.

“There’s something in that ancient superstition

Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves.”

The songs and legends of our sailors, and the suggestions which they now

whisper to me of an interest deeper than their own, linking them to

kindred tales of the far east, also bring forcibly to my memory many a

quaint custom still lingering in the Isles and in many an out-of-the way

corner of the Highlands; customs and superstitions which to many seem

merely idle folly—matters altogether beneath the notice of their great

intellect. Yet when I remember the exceeding interest taken in these

things by one of the best of Scotland’s great sons—one whose loss is

still so sorely felt by his countless friends, both rich and poor,

learned and ignorant, I mean Sir James Simpson—and when I remember that

he first directed my attention to the many traces of the old pagan

creeds and rites, and quaint notions of medical lore, common among our

forefathers, which still appear in these curious customs and traditions,

I feel sure that even their most trivial details are as well worth

preserving as are those fragments of antiquity—bones, metal, or

pottery—which are so carefully stowed away in our museums.

All too quickly, as he himself expressed it, these are melting and

disappearing before the light and the pride of modern knowledge, like

fairy and goblin forms vanishing before the break of day. Yet from the

scattered fragments that may even now be gathered together, there may

still be found clues to guide us backward through the mazes of lost

antiquarian lore. Nevertheless each day will make the task more

difficult, for, as we before noticed, the ban of kirk and school lie

heavily on all that savours of superstition. Even the old stories are

losing favour; and though the young folk still listen, there are no

longer such gatherings as there were a few years back, when fifty or

sixty people would crowd round some Father of the Clachan to hear one

wild legend after another.

One such man used to live at Broadford in the Isle of Skye, who told

wondrous tales of the Elan na Fermor, Island of the Big Men, that is,

the opposite Isle of Raasay, where huge bones of some extinct race of

giants are still shown in the kirk. He told also of the Picts, or little

men, whose curious “beehive houses,” built under ground, chamber within

chamber, still puzzle the antiquaries in Lewis and Uist; unless, indeed,

they have been content to accept Campbell of Islay’s suggestion of the

strange likeness between these old houses and those in common use among

the little Lapps of the present day. Both are alike sunk in the ground,

so that to the passer by they appear but as grassy conical hillocks,

with a hole at the top to act as chimney for the fire which burns in the

centre of the hut—a chimney through which a man standing upright might

suddenly thrust his head, greatly to the amazement of the passers-by.

Round these huts, say the old Gaelic fairy-tales, the little men drove

their herds of wild deer, and the little women came forth to milk the

hinds; just as, at the present day, the little Lapps still drive the

wild deer down from the mountains and the little Lapp women milk the

hinds, and give the traveller rein-deer cream in bowls of birch wood.

And in case any foolish unbeliever should doubt, as some have doubted,

the existence of rein-deer on our Scottish hills, and should venture to

suggest that our wild red deer never would submit tamely to be thus

herded and driven about, we refer him to the old Orkney Saga, which

tells how, in the eleventh century, when Harold and Ronald, Earls of

Orkney, made peace after their deadly feuds, they came over to Caithness

to hunt the rein-deer; and they and their merry men feasted abundantly

on their venison, and left a great store of bones, both of red deer and

rein-deer, as a special legacy to Professor Owen, and for the

discomfiture of the incredulous, for there the bones remain to this day.

So, after all, it is probable that the fairy tales which tell of the

little people who lived in the grassy hillocks and milked the wild deer

are true stories, only spiritualized by the mists of time and

imagination. The old man of Broadford was “weel acquaint” with the old

wife in Lewis to whom windbound sailors told their griefs, whereupon she

would give them a rope with three knots, bidding them never unfasten the

third. And sure enough, when they undid the first knot a gentle breeze

would rise, and at the second there sprung up a good stiff gale; but

once a rash mariner was so mad as to undo the third, and straightway a

wild hurricane swept over land and sea, and the boats were wrecked, and

the men only escaped with their lives to rue their comrade’s

presumption. Is this not a curious nineteenth century edition of the old

accounts of the Druid priestesses of L’Isle de Sain, off Brest, who, in

the days of Strabo, used to govern the winds by their wild songs, and

sell a gale to all devout mariners? He speaks of them as “Samnite women”

showing what strong resemblance there must have been between the wild

orgies of these priestesses of the west and their eastern sisters.

This old man would also tell how it came to pass that so many soldiers

had returned safe to the Isles after the French and Spanish campaigns.

All because “there was a blind man in Broadford who was able to put the

charm upon them. On each in turn he laid his hands, and they went away

looking straight before them. One man half turned his head and saw his

own shoulder—an evil omen—and sure enough he lost that arm; but though

the balls fell round the others as thick as peas, they were nowise hurt,

but returned as living proofs of the blind man’s power.”

As to the stories of witchcraft in the present day, they are still

numberless. The old poacher told how he himself had been following a

fine hart and stag in the corries, when suddenly, to his amazement, they

were transformed into a man and woman. He watched them tremblingly,

thanking his stars that he had not fired on them; when, in the twinkling

of an eye, he once more beheld only a couple of deer feeding in the

twilight. Had he only been possessed of a silver sixpence, he would

surely have had a shot at them; but a common bullet was useless against

such game, so he just stalked them for awhile, and again saw them resume

their natural form, when he cautiously crept away down the glen, and was

right glad to find himself once more in safe quarters! I think, however,

he must have appropriated to himself some Gaelic legend of olden times,

as the same story occurs in one of the very oldest Hindu poems, in which

the Rajah Pandu goes out hunting, and shoots his arrows at a very fine

stag and hind, which straightway resume human form, and appear as a

Brahmin and his wife, who, turning on the luckless archer, curse him

with a terrible curse. Moreover, in Ceylon we traced the same legend.

When at the ancient sanctuary of Mahintale, we were shown a huge

building, erected in the year B.C. 300, on the spot where Mahindo, a

noted Buddhist missionary, appeared to the king in the form of an elk.

The stories that tell how certain “ill-women” from the Isle of Raasay

were turned into seals, are matters of undoubted credence. So are a

hundred instances in which (now in the present day) women spite one

another, by destroying the milk of their neighbour’s cow—a fact which I

have again and again heard most gravely asserted in various parts of

Scotland by men and women who in most respects were sensible and

clear-headed enough. They believe that if only a woman can privately

gather a handful of grass from the roof of her neighbour’s cowshed, all

the milk will pass from her neighbour’s cow to her own pail; and in

proof of their superstition, they point out how so and so has invariably

twice as much milk as her own cows could possibly yield, and how she

always brings a double weight of butter to the market. I must not betray

the names of old friends, but I know of divers hillside bothies where a

bowl of rich cream or curds is always ready, and freely offered, greatly

to the scandal of jealous neighbours, who believe it to be all the

produce of the black art. It is only a few days since one of the

principal inhabitants of a northern town assured me she had, with her

own eyes, seen a woman preparing to make cheese, and that all her pans

were filled to the brim, though it was well known that two of her cows

were dry, and the third scarcely yielding sufficient milk for the

family! Of such an one it is common to say, “Oh! she must have been

_drawing the tether_;” meaning that early on Beltane morn, ere her

neighbours were astir, she had gone forth secretly, dragging her cow’s

tether through the dewy grass all round her field, and muttering

incantations to secure good milk!

Where underhand dealings of this sort are suspected, a counter-charm

must at once be brought into action; and such an one came under the

notice of Mr. Carmichael, in Uist, in the summer of 1874. It is known as

the _Eolan an Torranain_; or, Wisewoman Wisdom, which not only ensures a

cow against the evil eye, but causes her to give quantities of rich

milk. The Torranain was described to him as a large snow-white blossom,

growing in rocky places on the hills, which fills with the dew of bliss

while the tide is flowing, and slowly dries up again during the ebbing.

Therefore, to obtain the virtue of the flower, it must be gathered

during the flow of the tide, and then placed under one of the milk

pails; not, however, till it has been waved over it thrice in a sunwise

circle, while slowly and solemnly chaunting the _Eolas_, an incantation

in which St. Columba, St. Bride, St. Oran, and St. Michael, of the

high-crested steeds, are all called upon to lend their aid to win the

nine blessings. The combination of the old planet worship, traceable in

the reverence for tides and the sunwise circle, with the appeal to

Christian saints, is noteworthy. Mr. Carmichael’s informant did not know

the flower, but said she would gladly give one pound for the

information, and that she had travelled far to see an old man (a

descendant of the celebrated herbalists, the Bethunes of Skye, Mull and

Islay), who knows much about flowers, but his wife would on no account

allow him to tell her, and rated her soundly for daring to come to her

house on such unholy missions, supposing she wanted to take away her

neighbour’s milk!

The law does what it can to protect those accused of such unholy deeds;

for instance, in the autumn of ’71 a case (by no means exceptional) was

tried before the sheriff, at Stornoway, for defamation, a man having

formally accused a whole family of having by witchcraft stolen the milk

from his cows. He stuck to his belief, and was fined five shillings and

costs. Still more frequent is the accusation of having wilfully cast the

evil eye on a neighbour’s goods; and our northern sheriffs have to

decide many a case for slander and defamation all turning on some such

vague accusation of witchcraft. For the dread of the evil eye is just as

great here as in the far East; and any one reputed to possess it, is

shunned as a living plague. Quite recently I knew an instance of the

people refusing to let a woman settle among them; and they even came to

the proprietor to request that he would not give her a stance (_i.e._ an

allotment), because they declared she had wicked eyes. To us the young

woman and her eyes seemed rather comely and kindly. This curious

superstition retains its definite position as an article in the

household creed. Just as in Oriental lands women will suffer their

children to be disfigured by dirt, lest any admirer should covet them,

and so bring them ill-luck, here in the wilds of Ross-shire women will

hide the bonnie bairn of a family from a stranger who might possibly

have this evil eye. Nor is this dread of some envious being peculiar to

Ross-shire. We find the same thing even in Banff and Morayshire, where

praising the bairns is not always the way to the maternal heart. Hence

too the answer given by a shepherd when inquiry was made for his

beautiful dog: “Weel, sir, ye see, folk were aye admiring the dog, and

at last he just took a hely and died!” So here, in sage Scotland, we

have the identical belief in the evil eye with which we meet so

constantly in Italy and Spain. In fact the shepherd’s answer was the

counterpart of an observation made to us by a Spanish girl, whose dress

we had been guilty of admiring on more than one occasion. “Yes!” she

exclaimed, in extreme irritation, “you are always admiring my dress, and

that is just the reason I have torn it!”

We know on how many of our north country farms the gude-wife who is busy

at her churn or other household work, will bustle away her goods at the

approach of any dubious stranger, because she knows that there are

certain people whose presence will prevent the butter from coming, or

the cakes from baking. We know too, how vexed a henwife would be should

she catch us counting her chickens; and as to the experiment of counting

a string of fishwives, it would be rash indeed to try it, for dire would

be the storm of tongues. Should you be cruel enough to count the fishers

as they get into their boat, they will probably refuse to go to sea that

night, after so evil an omen. This, however, arises rather from the old

dread of numbering the people, than from fear of the evil eye.

Another quaint old fret, which may have sprung from Scriptural

tradition, or perhaps may own a more remote origin, is that curious

objection to enter a house “empty, swept, and garnished” which exists in

several of our northern counties. The out-going tenant whose officious

care should extend to cleaning the floor would be held guilty of a most

unneighbourly act to the new-comer. The more dirt and litter he leaves

about, the better pleased is his successor. My attention was first

called to this fact on one occasion when a tidy housekeeper at “the big

house” had caused a cottage close by to be scrubbed before the arrival

of the new tenant, whose look of dismay on glancing round rather

astonished her. “Oh!” said the woman, “I would rather have found the

dirtiest house in the country than this clean floor!” Shortly

afterwards, a house in the same district (Speyside) was changing hands;

the old housekeeper was most anxious to have everything in perfect order

for its new master, but nothing would induce her to have the floors

cleaned till he should have taken possession. On further inquiry we

found the same superstition to be a matter of general acceptance

throughout Banffshire and the neighbouring districts.

There is also a lingering belief in the ill-luck of taking a farm from

which the previous tenant has been ejected against his will, lest a

curse should go with the land—a curse which is expressed by a peculiar

Gaelic word, _eirthear_. And it was till very recently quite a natural

question to inquire whether any such grudge was attached to a farm, and

if so, the bargain constantly fell to the ground. This feeling accounts

for such entries in the transfer of land as that whereby in 1698,

Alexander Kinnaird, in a legal document, making over the lands of Culbyn

to Duff of Drummuir, specifies twice over that he gives the bargain _his

goodwill and blessing_. Not that it proved worth much, as the estate was

resold forty years later, and very soon after was overwhelmed with that

mysterious sandstorm, which changed the fertile lands into the worthless

desert we know so well. With regard to the unpleasant faculty of casting

the evil eye, I am told by a very clever village schoolmaster that he

had often gone fishing with one of his friends, a very good fellow, but

one who was reputed to possess it involuntarily, and all the other men

in the boat would watch him, and when they had a fish on their lines

would try to draw it in secretly, for so surely as he observed them

their fish would get away.

When such evil influence is supposed to have caused any illness, a witch

is consulted, as a matter of course, and probably her first action will

be to place a sixpence and a halfpenny in a bowl full of water. Then

upsetting the bowl, if the sixpence sticks to the bottom, there is no

doubt that the evil eye has been at work. As to dissuading the people

from consulting these weird-wives, they have ready answers in store. One

woman will tell you how, when she had no family, she consulted the old

_cailliach_, and soon afterwards became the joyful mother of children.

Another will tell how her milk went from her, and the witch brought it

back. She can bring luck too to the herring boats, so it would be rash

economy to save her puckle of meal. The boat-builder who knows his trade

must place a crooked sixpence in the keel of every boat, and should she

prove an unusually bonnie craft, her owner will probably do his best to

start her on her first sail without spectators, lest any beholding

should covet her, and so work mischief. The fishers of the good old

school have full faith in the power of the silver coin to avert mischief

from themselves as well as from their boats, and a sixpence placed in

the heel of the stocking is even a more important wedding ceremony than

the cross drawn on the door-post to keep off the witches.

I believe that at the present day there is scarcely a district in the

Highlands in which some unlucky old wife is not shunned by her

neighbours from the conviction that she is not “canny.” But so far from

maltreating her, they invariably make way for her at kirk and market,

never refusing anything she asks for, however inconvenient her request

may be. One such old woman we knew well, whose neighbours firmly

believed that she frequently assumed the form of a cat, and sat on the

rafters to bewitch her husband. She had the reputation of bewitching

other people besides him, and certain it is that dire evils befell those

who incurred her hatred.

Happy it is for these poor ignorant old wives that the days we gone by

when the kirk sessions used to vote supplies of fuel for the burning of

the witches, and when the clergy, as a matter of course, stood by the

funeral pyre, not, however, to comfort the poor victims, to whose

shrieks they could listen unmoved, as to those of expiring devils.

Little mercy awaited them from Romish priest or Protestant minister.

They were held by both alike to have renounced their baptism and so

placed themselves beyond the reach of God’s mercy; and while no priest

would shrive one accused of the black art, however penitent she might

be, no more could the Reformers find one glimmer of hope for such a one.

Luther decreed that all such must be burnt; and John Knox stood by the

fire to “mak sicker.” So admirable a thing as the destruction of a witch

was held to be work meet far the day of rest, “a sanctifying” of the

Sabbath! And there were even cases of church services being omitted in

order that minister and people might be present at the burning.

There were actually men appointed in every district, known as prickers

or witch-finders, who received from the kirk sessions and Court of

Justiciary sums averaging six pounds Scots for every witch whom they

discovered. In some instances the clergy themselves became

witch-prickers. It was supposed that every witch and wizard bore the

devil’s mark, which was simply a small discoloured spot, which would

neither feel pain nor bleed, though a large pin were thrust through it.

So soon therefore as any person was suspected of witchcraft, no matter

how young and delicate a maiden or how venerable a grand-dame, she was

seized and stripped naked, bound with ropes, and pricked all over with

sharp needles. Screams of agony were of no avail. The witch-pricker

continued his devilish work till the exhausted victim could scream no

more. Whereupon at the next thrust of the needle it was declared that

the mark had been found! Then sometimes for a whole week the tormentors

took it by turns to watch, and keep the poor sufferer awake, lest in her

dreams she should commune with Satan, as also in hopes of extorting

semi-delirious confessions; the watchers themselves relieved guard every

four-and-twenty hours. After these preliminaries, the accused were

delivered to the tormentors to extort further confessions; and every

form of torture which the arch-fiend himself could have devised was in

turn practised upon the poor quivering flesh. They were sprinkled with

boiling pitch and brimstone, which produced appalling sores, they were

suspended in mid-air while burning torches were held beneath their

uplifted arms. Finger-nails were wrenched off, red-hot tongs playfully

gripped the bones, after burning away the flesh; the limbs were crushed

with screws and hammers, while a witch-bridle (the four iron points of

which pierced the tongue, the palate and both cheeks) was fastened on by

a padlock at the back of the neck, and thus, to an iron ring in the

wall. Sometimes the swimming test was applied. The victim was dragged to

a pond and thrown in with her thumbs and toes tied together. If the

merciful waters would receive and drown her, her innocence was proven.

But should they reject her, and suffer her to float, she was guilty

beyond all doubt, and the hottest bonfire must be made ready for her.

Then she was dragged backwards by her hair to the court, lest by her

looks she should bewitch the judges, who then solemnly pronounced

sentence in the name of the most Holy Trinity.

Remember that all this devilish work was actually going on in Scotland

less than two hundred years ago, at which time one of the

witch-prickers, who for some of his misdeeds was most righteously

hanged, confessed on the gibbet “that he had illegally caused the death

of one hundred and twenty females whom he had been appointed to test for

witchcraft.” It certainly sounds rather as if the judges themselves had

been bewitched, when we read the accounts of the successive witch-manias

that have overspread this land. For instance at the close of the

searching reign of the Long Parliament, a list was drawn up of three

thousand victims who had actually suffered death by its command on the

most trivial accusations. Even in the year 1716 it is recorded that a

woman and her daughter, aged nine, were hanged at Huntingdon for selling

their souls to the devil, and raising a storm, by pulling off their

stockings and making a lather of soap. Six years later another luckless

witch was executed at Dornoch! It is a remarkable fact that the

commencement of this diabolical persecution should have been coeval with

the invention of that great civilizer, the printing press, one of whose

first missions was to disseminate a stringent bull fulminated against

witchcraft by Pope Innocent VIII., wherein, under the title of “Hammers

for Witches,” he minutely described how all such might be recognized,

and how punished. The flame thus kindled spread like wildfire; nor did

the Reformation in any way lessen the evil. It was not till the year

1735 that the penal statutes against witchcraft were formally repealed,

a measure decried by many of the clergy and other respected members of

the community as direct disobedience to the Levitical command, that no

witch should be suffered to live. When the reign of fire and faggot was

thus finally abolished, it was calculated that within three hundred

years upwards of thirty thousand people had been put to death in England

alone on the charge of sorcery, while in Germany the number of victims

could not have been less than one hundred thousand! Even such as were

acquitted would in many cases have preferred death, as the mere

suspicion seems to have placed them beyond the pale of human sympathy.

They were outcasts for ever—hunted and cursed by all, save those who

needed their arts. Certainly our forefathers were slow to learn lessons

of mercy to malefactors.

It is only a hundred and seventy years since the treasurer’s accounts in

Elgin contained such items as the payment of twenty shillings Scots,

“for scourging two, lugging two, and burning two thieves,” lugging

signifying in English cutting off their ears! And the Edinburgh records

of the same date see nothing uncommon in paying one pound to the lockman

(hangman) for scourging a woman! In fact, fifty years later, we hear how

Agnes Blyth was by decree of the Sheriff whipped through the city of

Edinburgh as a punishment for hen-stealing!

But the most curious thing of all is to find people who to this day

believe that such old witches can by their magical arts compass the

death of any foe. It sounds like a story of the middle ages to hear of

women sitting by their own fireside modelling images of wax in order

that as these slowly melt so he to whom they wish evil may likewise fade

away. Yet such a case recently came under our notice in the good town of

Inverness, where an old woman having conceived a violent hatred to her

spiritual pastor on account of his refusing her admission to the Holy

Communion, took this method of destroying him! It so happened that at

that time he fell into very bad health, and as the old lady watched him

growing gradually weaker and weaker, she was fully satisfied that her

charm was working effectually. She was, however, doomed to

disappointment, as her image was discovered and betrayed; and her spell

being broken, the victim rapidly recovered!

Two similar instances have come under our notice in the same

neighbourhood. Thus at Kirkhill near Beauly, in the year 1870, a farmer

had occasion to dismiss a man summarily from his employment. The man

owed him a grudge, and by way of avenging himself he made an image of

clay which he buried near the farmer’s house, hoping that as the rains

washed away the clay, his enemy would pine and die. Sure enough he did

pine, and became very sickly indeed; when lo! one day, as he was digging

in his field he found this image, and at once suspected its object, and

the miscreant who had placed it there; so wroth was he, that it needed

all the persuasive eloquence of his neighbours to prevent his at ones

carrying the case before his landlord. Curiously enough, he is said to

have recovered from that hour!

Again, also in Beauly, we hear of a man slowly dying without any

apparent cause. His home was ruled by a woman of violent temper. “Ou!

she was a wild woman!” said my informant. The neighbours at last became

convinced that she was compassing his death by evil arts, and sought in

every direction for some wax or clay image. They found she had been

sticking very suspicious lumps of clay on divers trees. I ventured to

suggest grafting; but the idea was scouted. However, they sought in vain

for any more definite proof of guilt, and in due time the sick man died.

In Strathspey we were also told in whispered tones of this terrible form

of witchcraft, as of a thing not to be doubted, and here the witches

give piquancy to their crime by sticking pins into the clay doll, before

laying it in some running stream, where it may slowly but surely melt

away. A calf’s heart stuck full of pins is also accounted a sure means

of disposing of a foe. A sick person having reason to attribute his

illness to any such supernatural cause of course appeals to some local

wise woman. Amongst the sapient cures suggested will probably be a

poultice of warm cow-dung—a nice recipe, quite _à la Hindu_. Indeed, the

whole transaction savours of Indian superstition, one race of witches

being there known as Jigger-khor, or liver devourers; their evil eye,

incantations, and slow charms being recognized as fatal means for the

destruction of their victims. Their punishment, however, is

severe—rubbing the eyelids with cayenne pepper being their least

penalty, while the old ordeals by water, or holding balls of red-hot

iron in the hand, are by no means forgotten. These Indian dames are on

the whole more formidable than ours, as they can transform themselves

into raging tigers as easily as our old women assume the innocent form

of a hare.

There seems to be a curious family likeness connecting the witchcrafts

of divers lands. This particular device of moulding a waxen image in the

likeness of a foe seems to be very well known in Abyssinia, where, we

are told, the people habitually carefully conceal their own baptismal

names and those of their children, who from their infancy are only known

to their fellows by some nick-name. The reason assigned for this odd

custom is the conviction that only the baptismal name is recognized in

heaven, and that therefore should any evil-doer wish to harm them, by

moulding such an image to represent them, the spell would assuredly fail

to work if the image were prepared in the false name. Rather a curious

view of the subserviency of heaven to the powers of darkness!

Among the quaint little devices of modern Scotch witches, we know in

Perthshire of a certain cat having been killed and coffined as a symbol

likely to compass the death of a lady who had incurred the ill-will of

some miscreant. The man who found this unlucky cat was very much

disturbed in his mind, evidently considering it very dangerous. He was

fully aware of its meaning, so it was probably by no means a unique

instance.

Poor cats! they seem to be always associated with witchery and

divination, and very hard lines they get. One revolting form of augury

long in use in the Isles, was that of half roasting a live cat, in the

belief that its screams would attract the king of cats, who could reveal

all hidden knowledge, as the price of poor pussy’s release. They also

occupy a very grave place in the records of James VI., where, in the

trial of the witches of Tranent, two luckless old women confessed to

having christened cats by the name of Anne of Denmark and having thrown

them into the sea, in order to raise such storms as might impede her

voyage. Thus it came to pass that by their evil arts a boat laden with

gifts and jewels for the queen was wrecked in the Firth of Forth. A few

years later, another witch confessed to having christened a cat by the

queen’s name, and passed it nine times through the iron gate of Seaton,

and then cast it to the devil. For this, and similar acts, she and four

other persons were burnt alive!

It seems that these malpractices are neither a thing of the past, nor

peculiar to the old wives of Scotland. Mackay, writing in 1841, mentions

many recent cases of witchcraft having come under his notice in

Hastings, Lincoln and Huntingdon; most especially one of a cunning man

whose ordinary business it was to mould wax images stuck full of pins,

in order to destroy such persons as annoyed his customers! He also tells

of a wizard near Tunbridge Wells who was constantly consulted by persons

of the highest rank.

There is no need, however, to look back for such cases. So lately as

May, 1872, two onions, stuck full of pins, and ticketed with the name of

the intended victim, were found suspended in the chimney of a

publichouse at the village of Rockwellgreen, Somersetshire; showing that

the old tricks are not forgotten there. Even in London at the present

day there are professional diviners who beguile the unwary, and whose

business proves as lucrative as the sale of quack medicines. I have just

been told by one whose curiosity led her into one of these

establishments, that she was shown into a large waitingroom crowded with

well-dressed women, amongst whom she recognised the daughter of an

English clergyman. Each in turn was ushered into a private room, where

they were received by no hideous witch, but by a comely woman with a

goodly array of tea-cups, each containing a little tea, with leaves. The

anxious inquirer into futurity was made to turn one of these thrice

sunwise, and throw out the liquid; whereupon the oracle interpreted the

arrangement of the leaves, as solemnly as any old wife in Ross-shire, or

any old washerwoman in any part of the country, could have done. Only

last summer, four fortune-telling wizards were busy in London, working

out planetary schemes, and casting nativities for all who cared to

consult them. These men, being of the vulgar sort, were looked up by the

police, and sentenced to three months’ hard labour. Among their

stock-in-trade were found magic mirrors and magic cards, as also a

regular register of their clients, showing that the number of their

dupes sometimes amounted to nearly seven hundred in a week!

As concerns the more fashionable attempts at tampering with the

Spirit-world, we can but congratulate the mediums on the repeal of the

penal laws; a hundred years ago their Spiritrappings and table-turnings

would have cost them dear indeed. What are we to say of the American

_Spiritual Journal_? What of the British ladies, who with white hands

resting on _planchette_ (a heart-shaped piece of wood, pierced at one

end with a pencil, and the other resting on two wooden pegs), send their

maids on fools’ errands to thieves’ quarters for the recovery of lost

jewels, on the strength of a few mysterious scratches on a sheet of

paper? Stranger than all, what can we think of a large exhibition in

Bond-street of spiritual paintings, apparently without any sort of form

or meaning, though described by the medium in words that to ears

uninitiated sound simply blasphemous? These things, however, belong to

fashionable modern life and high civilization, while the antiquarian

chips which we would fain collect are more likely to be found amongst

the unlettered poor, who merely walk after the tradition of their

fathers, without any wish to seek out new inventions. Such quaint old

superstitions are common in every corner of England and Scotland, though

rarely noticed save when they lead to some mischief which brings them

within ken of the law.

Thus at Craigmillar, near Edinburgh, a woman, not long ago, refused to

give a neighbour “a bit peat” to light her fire, because she was

supposed to be uncanny. The old woman muttered, as she turned away, that

her churlish neighbour might yet repent of her unkindness. This speech

the other repeated to her husband on his return from work, whereupon he

went straight to the old woman’s house, and gave her a sharp cut on the

forehead, for which he was duly called to account, and pleaded his

belief that scoring the witch above the breath would destroy her

glamour!

Some very curious notions as to this non-giving of fire exist in some

Highland districts. In various districts of Perthshire, in Ross-shire,

and in Strathspey, I have found instances of it. At Beltane, Midsummer,

Hallow-e’en, and particularly at the New Year, and on some intervening

days, there is a dread of ill-luck in allowing a neighbour to take a

kindling from the hearth, or even a light for a pipe. An old servant

from the island of Islay tells me that there no one would, on any

account, give or take a light at Hogmanay, that is, at the new year.

A schoolmaster, in Ross-shire, also gave me various instances of this

superstition which had come under his immediate notice. For instance, an

old wife came to a neighbour’s house to get “a kindling” for her fire.

There was no one in the house but a wide-awake lassie eight years old.

So well versed was the child in this fire lore, that she would neither

give a match nor a cinder. Having turned out the poor old body, the

little girl immediately went to fetch two friends, and they followed the

old woman to her home, where, sure enough, they found a blazing fire and

a boiling pot. “See you,” said the lassie, “gin the _cailliach_ had

gotten the kindling, my father would not get a herring this year!”

In like manner a poor tinker’s wife came into a house in Applecross, one

morning in July, 1868, and took up a live peat from the hearth to kindle

her own fire. She had got to some distance before she was observed,

whereupon the gude-wife rushed after her, and, snatching away the poor

gipsy’s prize, turned to a stranger who ventured to remonstrate, saying,

“Do you think I am to allow my cow to be dried up? If I allowed her to

carry away the fire, I would not have a drop of milk tonight to wet the

bairns’ mouths.” She then threw the peat into a pail of water, so as to

recover whatever milk might already have found its way from poor crummie

to the tinker’s camp. Generally, when a kindling has thus been taken by

stealth, it is considered safer to consult a wise woman (or, as they

call her, a disciple of Black Donald), that she may put a counter-check

on the evil designs of the unneighbourly neighbour.

We find allusions to this quaint superstition in divers legends of old,

as for instance in those that tell of the mighty brothers Akin and Rhea,

prehistoric giants, who dwelt on the mainland, and occasionally crossed

over to the Isle of Skye by leaping the Straits. The brothers built two

strong towers in the Glenelg country, where they lived in fraternal

harmony, till on one evil day the younger brother, returning to his

home, found only a black hearth to greet him. Weary and chill, he passed

on to his brother’s castle, where the fire was smouldering as usual.

Soon he kindled a cheery blaze, and having warmed himself, prepared to

return to his own lair, taking with him, however, a burning peat for a

kindling. At this moment the loving elder brother returned from the

chase, and great was his wrath on perceiving the theft. The culprit made

off with all speed, as well he might, for to this day the valley is

strewn with rocks hurled after him by the infuriated giant; one mighty

boulder in particular stands forth is a warning to all men to respect

the rights of Fire.

This curious fear of ill-luck connected with the giving or stealing of

fire is doubtless one of those quaint traces of old Paganism on which we

still occasionally light; and which, in these days of humdrum common

sense, have a charm like that of some wild-berry wine—a gamey flavour in

short, recalling the days when the mainland, and probably even these

islands, were covered with dense primeval forests, where wild deer, and

wild men, and stately Druid priests, found home and shelter; and where

our ancestors worshipped Baal, the sun-god, and Ashtaroth, the

moon-goddess, with strange mysterious rites, mostly connected with fire,

and with the gathering of sacred plants; when on the great Fire

festivals the priests kindled fire by friction, and all the people

carried it to their cottages, where it was never suffered to go out,

but, as new, smouldered on, night and day all the year round; except

when purposely extinguished to make room for the new holy fire. As the

purchase of this fire was a source of profit to the priests, it would

naturally be considered criminal for one neighbour to give it to another

at the seasons when every man was bound to purchase it for himself. Of

course, though the old customs are still retained, their original

meaning is utterly forgotten; and the man who throws a live peat after a

woman who is about to increase the population, or he who on Hallow-e’en

throws a lighted brand over his own shoulder without looking at whom he

aims, little dreams whence sprang these time-honoured games. I know that

in many of the remote glens of Perthshire there are still living women

who on Beltane morn always throw ashes and a live peat over their own

heads, repeating a certain formula of words to bring them luck. But the

strictest secresy is observed, lest such practices should reach the ear

of the minister: so the stronger their belief, the less willing are they

to confess to any knowledge of such matters.

One remarkable trace of this old faith was the long-continued use of the

Fire-churn, or Need-fire,—that is to say, fire kindled by friction of

dry wood, as a charm against cattle plague. That which was procured from

striking metal was considered worthless. Among the various accounts of

Highland customs, which in the year 1830 were spoken of as still quite

common, was the kindling of this Need-fire in any case of murrain, or

cattle disease. A small booth was erected near some river or loch, in

which divers wooden posts, upright and horizontal, were placed: the

horizontal timber was provided with several spokes, by means of which it

was rapidly turned round, till, by its friction with the other posts, it

became ignited.

The men who turned the spokes were obliged to divest themselves of any

metal they might have about them, in conformity with that curious

feature in all magic, or fairy lore, which makes the presence of steel

or iron utterly neutralize all spiritual influences. In all the Celtic

fairy tales we find that the touch of a dirk deprives the “good folk” of

all power, so that to lay cold steel on one fairy-bound would release

him from the spell. Therefore it was, doubtless, that the Druids cut

their sacred mistletoe with golden sickles; and for the same reason,

their descendants to this present day go forth on May morning to gather

ivy and other plants, which must not be cut by any knife. It is worthy

of note that the same superstition exists among the Africans of the Gold

Coast, who, to this day, deem it necessary when consulting their Fetish,

to remove their knives, and any other ornament of steel or iron.

The Need-fire having been kindled, all other fires about the farm were

put out, and relighted from this one, and all the cattle were made to

smell it; sometimes the sick animals were made to stand over the fire

for a quarter of an hour with their tongues out. According to the

original custom, the sacrifice of a heifer was necessary to the

salvation of the herd. The latest instance on record of this sacrifice

having actually been offered occurred at Dallas, in Morayshire, on my

father’s estate, and within his memory. A murrain having grievously

afflicted one of the small farmers, he proceeded to kindle the Need-fire

with all ceremony—then having dug a pit, he therein sacrificed an ox, to

some Spirit unknown.

Sir James Simpson mentions two similar ceremonies within the memory of

the present and past generation; one was at Biggar in Lanarkshire, the

other near Torphichen in West Lothian, within twenty miles of Edinburgh;

at the latter, a near relative of Sir James was present. In each case an

unhappy cow was buried alive, as a sacrifice to the Spirit of the

Murrain, in the hope that the rest of the flock might thereby be saved!

He goes on to tell how, in the same district, another relation of his

own bought a farm not many years ago. The first thing he did, on taking

possession, was to enclose a small triangular corner of one of the

fields with a stone wall. This corner remains cut off to this day, and

is known as the “Goodman’s Croft,” being an offering to the Spirit of

Evil, who, being thus appeased, might abstain from blighting the rest of

the farm. Lucifer seems, however, to have made rather a bad bargain, the

“Goodman’s” portion being the most worthless and sterile corner on the

whole farm! There are few parishes in Scotland in which some scrap of

land has not, in olden days, borne this significant title. Two such odd

corners lie near the town of Crieff in Perthshire, though there, as in

most other places, the “Goodman’s Croft” is now known as the “Bellman’s

Croft,” that functionary having in most cases been served heir to the

d——l, whose land he works for his own benefit.

I am told that there have been various instances in the present century

in which bulls have been sacrificed in England. One such case was the

offering of a calf in Cornwall, in the year 1800, to arrest a murrain;

and the Rev. J. Evans describing Wales in the year 1812, says that

whenever a violent disease broke out among the horned cattle, the

farmers of the district joined to give up a bullock to be offered as a

ransom for the herds. It was led to the top of a precipice and thence

cast down; the ceremony being known as ‘casting a captive to the devil.’

Somewhat similar is the annual sacrifice in Brittany of an ox, a cow, a

calf, and a sheep, which, being gaily adorned with flowers and ribbons,

are led in procession round the church with music of drums and fifes,

and flags flying. These animals are then sold for the benefit of St.

Nicodemus, to induce him to protect all other flocks and herds in the

district.

In olden days it was currently believed that this offering of a life for

a life was equally efficacious in the case of human beings as in that of

animals. Hence we read strange stories of witchcraft, whereby men or

women sought to redeem their own lives by the sacrifice of another human

life, or else when they “laid their sickness” on some animal—cat, dog,

or sheep; and it was firmly believed that this modern scapegoat would

straightway vanish, and never again be seen.

Several of these ceremonies are strangely akin to some of the Hindu

practices, and it is said that this kindling of the Need-fire as a charm

against disease, though varying in detail, is practised by nearly all

the Indo-European races.

Shaw, writing at the end of last century, mentions having frequently

been present at this fire-making, and adds that a great cauldron was set

on this forced fire (_teine eigin_) wherein juniper was boiled, and the

_bree_ sprinkled on the cattle. Juniper was also burnt in the cattle

stalls, that its fumes might keep away the witches. Possibly it may have

acted as a disinfectant. It was also customary to burn juniper before

the cattle on New Year’s Day, and to adorn the cow-byres with

mountain-ash and honeysuckle at Beltane, the first of May; all pointing

to the old Celtic reverence for certain plants. In some parts of

Ross-shire the lassies still go out on May morning to gather sprays of

ivy, which, as already noticed, must on no account be cut with metal,

they must be gathered by hand or bitten with the teeth. These they sew

into their petticoats, to bring them luck for the year. The favourite

charm against the evil eye is a sprig of mountain-ash worn inside the

dress, or else tied to the door of the cow-byre or the halyards of the

fishing-boats, with a scarlet thread—a custom referred to in the old

rhyme which tells how—

“Rowan-tree and red thread

Mak’ the witches tyne their speed.”

In Banffshire it is still a common custom to tie a couple of twigs

crosswise with red thread, and place them above the door of the

cow-house, and we know various knowing old wives who keep a red thread

twisted round the tail of their cow, as a safeguard from evil. The

perforated stones worn as amulets were also tied round the neck with a

red thread, and we know that a triple twist of red, blue, and white

thread is considered the safest medicine for a sick child in the island

of Islay, and probably in many another corner of the Hebrides.

This reverence for a scarlet twine is by no means confined to these

isles. We hear how the witches of Mongolia carry on their incantations

in the tents of the sick by slaying a sheep in sacrifice (not, however,

to Buddha, who forbids such practices, though his image is produced to

witness the ceremony), and the shoulder-blade is then tied up above the

fire, suspended by a twist of scarlet silken thread. We also read in the

old chronicles of Ceylon, how Vishnu protected some of his votaries from

the sorceries of the demon-worshippers by tying threads on their arms.

The same custom is still common among some of the hill tribes of India.

At a Hindu or a Khand wedding the presence of a red or yellow thread is

as necessary a part of the ceremonial as is the gold ring of

Christendom. The Hindus bind the thread round the waist of the children,

while the Khands tie it round their necks. The Mahrattas tie the young

couple together with a crimson scarf.

The diviners in the Rajmahal hills commence their incantations by

binding a red thread round the head with five cowrie shells attached to

it. The same shells are commonly worn in Egypt as amulets against the

Evil Eye. The divining-stool is spotted with red paint, and has a red

thread tied round it, and at certain festivals branches of the sacred

muckmun-tree are cut, and having been carried five times round the

house, they are bound to the door-post or the rafter with a red thread.

Branches of the same tree are bound with a red silk thread to the shrine

of certain of the gods, to whom are sacrificed red cocks, or eggs

spotted with red paint. But the deity to which they fly for refuge in

times of pestilence is an unhewn Black Stone, to which they sacrifice

goats and fowls; just such a stone as that which Sir Walter Scott

declares to have been held in such extreme veneration throughout the

Hebrides that the people would never approach it without certain

solemnities. It lay on the sea-shore, and was supposed to be oracular,

and to answer whatever questions might be asked by the influence which

it secretly exerted on the mind of the inquirer. A similar black stone

was, as we have seen, long preserved in the cathedral of Iona; others

were worshipped by the Phœnicians and Romans, while one is still revered

as the most sacred treasure of Mecca.

The rowan-tree, or mountain-ash, was in continual requisition in all

parts of Ireland and Scotland, and we find it now in all Welsh

churchyards. At May Day (Beltane) rowan twigs were carried thrice

sunwise round the bonfires, then carried home, and placed in every house

to ward off all evil in the coming year. On the same day the farmers of

Strathspey and Inverness were wont to make a twisted hoop of rowan, and

cause each sheep and lamb to pass through it, till the whole flock had

thus been secured from harm.

Every cow-herd having a due regard to the safety of his cattle would

certainly drive his beasts with a rowan stick. In Forfarshire we know of

certain byres where, if even the rowan-tree and red thread have failed

to keep away disease, the cow-herd invariably places a burning peat on

the threshold of the byre, and makes the sick beasts walk over it, as a

sure and infallible cure; while in Islay the custom is on May morning to

smear the ears of the cattle with tar to keep off the warlocks.

One very ancient custom for the good of the cattle was to take a sod

from the roof of the byre and a burning peat, and plunge both in a pail

of strong ale,—a drink which was made from the young tops of heather,

with a certain proportion of malt; it seems to have been the favourite

brew of the ancient Picts, but the art of preparing it is now lost.

But the superstition which we find most constantly cropping up is the

practice of the _deisul_, that is, a turn southward, following the

course of the sun, such as the custom of rowing a boat sunwise, at first

starting, or of walking thrice sunwise round any person to whom one

wishes good luck. At the new year, when the sun begins its yearly

revolution, a cow’s hide used in like manner to be carried thrice round

the house, following the course of the sun.

The word _deisul_ is derived from _deas_, the right hand, and _sul_, the

sun; the right hand being always kept next to that object round which

the turn was made. I believe _deas_ literally means the _south_ which

lies on the right hand when the face looks eastward; but the word is

used to denote everything which is right and well doing. The Gaelic for

east is _ear_, from _eiridh_, to rise. West, on the contrary, is _iar_,

after. A person turning against the course of the sun faces the west,

and everything becomes unlucky. His right hand will then be to the

north, _tuath_, and the very word _tuathaisd_ denotes a stupid person;

hence the words _deisul_ and _tuathail_ are in Gaelic equivalent to

right and wrong.

This contrary turn from right to left was called _tuaphol_, or

_widdershins_, or _cartua-sul_; and by the Latins _sinistrorum_. It was

only made when invoking a curse on some particular object. Thus

evil-doers and malignant witches began the devil’s work by so many turns

against the course of the sun. Among the confessions of a wretched

schoolmaster accused of witchcraft, and tortured in presence of James

VI. and his Privy Council, he is shown to have gone round the Church of

North Berwick in a contrary direction to the sun, after which he merely

blew upon the lock, and the door opened. For this and similar offences

the wretched man was burnt alive. Times had changed since a precisely

similar action, wrought by St. Columba, had been extolled as a saintly

miracle; at least there is a tradition to the effect that it was thus

Columba gained admission to the presence of Brude, when that monarch

refused him an audience. St. Adamnan, however, affirms that the cross

signed on the palace gates was the sole talisman used on that occasion.

Whatever may have been the virtue ascribed to these singular solar

turns, we find them again and again alluded to in the history of various

ancient nations. Even in the sacred page we may trace their symbolical

use; most notably in that strange account of the miraculous siege of

Jericho, when by divine command the host of Israel was made to compass

the city thirteen times in awful silence, unbroken save by the dread

sound of the seven sacred trumpets borne by the seven priests who

preceded the Holy Ark. On seven successive days were Joshua and his men

of war bidden to form a vast procession, escorting the priests who bore

the ark, and, having marched once round the doomed city in the sight of

its wondering, and doubtless mocking, people, they were then to return

silently to their camp. But on the seventh day they were commanded to

compass the city seven times, and when the trumpets sounded, then the

whole multitude joined in a shout so mighty that it seemed to rend the

very heaven, and even as they did so the strong foundations were shaken,

and the battlemented walls crumbled and fell to the ground, and the

Israelites marched up straight before them and possessed the city that

had been thus marvellously given into their hands.

Some idea of the mysterious virtue attached to these sunwise turns may

perhaps be the reason that the Jews, in several different countries,

thus march seven times round their newly-coffined dead. In Pagan records

we find the same customs common to both Greeks and Romans. There is also

historical evidence of their having been practised by the Gauls three

thousand years ago. Virgil mentions them among the funeral rites of

Pallas, when the mourners first marched thrice in sad procession round

the funeral pile, then mounting their steeds, again made the same sad

circuit three times, amid wails of sorrow.

Among the Santhals (aborigines of India) the corpse is carried thrice

round the funeral pyre, and laid thereon; the next of kin then makes a

torch of grass, and after walking three times round the pile in silence

touches the mouth of the deceased with the flaming brand, averting his

own face. After this the friends and kindred gather round, all facing

the south, and set fire to the pyre. The same ceremony is observed by

every devout Hindu. In the days of suttee, now happily gone by, the

wretched young widow must thus go thrice sunwise round the funeral pyre

whereon lay the body of her deceased lord, before she ventured to lie

down beside him to await her horrible death. I have myself often watched

either the Brahmins or the nearest relations of the dead walk thrice

sunwise round the funeral pyre before they applied the torch. In their

pilgrimage round the holy city of Benares and other places of pilgrimage

they follow the same course. With them, however, this homage to the sun

is a natural part of their daily worship, wherein he is adored as the

true light of Brahma, filling earth and heaven, the foe of darkness, the

destroyer of every sin. Therefore the worshipper bows to the great cause

of day, and making a turn toward the south exclaims, “I follow the

course of the sun. As he in his course moves through the world by the

way of the south, so do I, in following him, obtain the merit of a

journey round the world by way of the south.”

So in the Himalayas. The prayer-wheels are always turned sunwise, and it

is held to be iniquitous to turn them in the opposite direction; hence

the great unwillingness of the people to allow us to touch them. In

Thibet also, where they build long terraces engraven with forms of

adoration, there is always a path on each side of them, so that the

people in passing by may go on one side and return by the other,

sunwise. When they dance round their idols, or go in procession round

their temples, the same course is always followed, just as it has been

in all ages by the followers of Buddha, whether in Thibet, Nepaul,

Burmah, or Ceylon, where it has ever been accounted an act of merit to

walk sunwise round every dagoba, or relic shrine, in the land. I must,

however, confess that on several occasions I observed the pious

Buddhists of Ceylon making their circuit round the dagobas in the wrong

direction. Whether malice to any neighbour prompted such a course must

be ascertained by some one better versed in the Singhalese tongue. I was

told that in the same isle there still exist tribes whose custom it is

to carry their dead thrice sunwise round the newly-dug grave ere they

are laid therein. Thus, too, the devout Mohammedan completes his

meritorious pilgrimage to Mecca by making the circuit of the Caaba seven

times sunwise.

In the Christian churches of Abyssinia the officiating priests, bearing

the cross and incense, thus march three times round the altar; with slow

and solemn step, at the end of each part of the service. I suppose the

custom is common to all the Greek Church, as in the marriage ceremony

(every part of which is thrice repeated), the young couple having thrice

drank from the chalice and thrice kissed the cross, conclude by

following the priest thrice sunwise round the altar.

All Russian sects likewise order their processions so as to follow the

sun’s course, and I have little doubt that some insensible trace of

homage to the _deisul_ has ordered the course of our own ecclesiastical

processions round churches on the day of consecration, when, beginning

at the east, they go round the south aisle to the west, a course which I

believe is invariable, and not otherwise accounted for. That this was

the daily custom of our ancestors is well known; and at Stonehenge we

can still distinguish the earthen path encompassing the temple whereby

the priests and people passed on their daily round.

We need not go far for instances of the _deisul_. At our own tables, the

bottles are always sent round following the course of the sun, and to

reverse their journey has always been held unlucky. Should a bottle be

thoughtlessly diverted from its course, a true Highlander will turn it

round before sending it on. Not that this feeling is peculiar to the

north. The remark of a Lincolnshire servant concerning a helper whose

waiting at table had been commended, shows that the old instinct is

still alive; “Oh! I did not think much of his waiting! He went round the

table against the sun.”

The idea of luck was, as we have seen, connected with the south, the

right hand being described as the south hand. Therefore a bride must, at

the marriage service, be led east by south, westward to the side of her

future husband; and if the young couple hope for any luck in the future,

they must begin their wedded life by making a turn sunwise. Likewise at

the churching of women, and at burials, this custom was commonly

observed, till quite recently. Every village had its lucky spot round

which the dead were so carried.

Among the “Reminiscences of a Highland Parish,” mention is made of the

fact that the bier must be thus carried thrice round the old Iona Cross,

at the foot of which it then rested for a few minutes. This old custom

had been continued without a break from the old pagan days; for in the

life of St. Columba it is recorded that when he took possession of the

Holy Isle of the Druids, every funeral procession that came to lay its

dead in Iona, halted at a mound called Eala, whereon the corpse was

laid, while the mourners marched thrice solemnly round the spot.

It appears also as if the unaccountable prejudice against burying the

dead on the north side of a church was due to the same insensible

reverence for the sun (the source of all purity and light); towards

whose rising the sleepers were to look as they lay with their feet

turned eastward. The abode of the evil spirit lay to the north, away

from the sun’s gracious influences. Hence the crowd of graves invariably

found on the south side of almost every country churchyard, whether in

Scotland, Wales, or England, while on the north side there are probably

none, save perhaps the tiny green mounds that mark the burial-place of

some unbaptised infant, or the unhallowed tomb of a suicide. The same

curious fact has been remarked by antiquaries in their researches among

the graves of the Ancient Britons. They tell us that in examining their

burial hills, all the interments, however numerous, are invariably on

the south side. Out of several hundred barrows examined in different

parts of the country, only two instances are recorded in which human

remains were found to the north of the tumulus.

The perpetual recurrence of the terms _east_ and _west_, in the mouth of

a genuine Highlander of course originate in the same feeling. If you ask

a man into your house, you bid him “come west,” quite irrespective of

the points of the compass. To bid him come east, however true

geographically, would be gross insult, involving ill-luck. Once within

the house, the host gives his guest a dram, and bids him “Put it west

his throat,” implying goodwill in the swallowing of it. A lad courting a

lass is said to be “putting it west upon her.” If you bid a man take

some work in hand heartily, you bid him “put it west,” or “put west your

foot.” Hence the answer of a poor old man to whom a bolus had been

recommended for his often infirmities. Being asked if he had taken it,

he replied, “Na, mem! it wadna gang east!” meaning that it was so

utterly against the grain. I suppose, however, we must refer merely to

the points of the compass, the question lately asked us by an old woman

at the post-office, whether she must stamp her letter in the east or

west corner!

The only exception to this rule of good and evil luck which has ever

come to my knowledge is in the case of divination by smoke, when it

seems to be accounted the luckiest omen that the smoke should drift

eastward towards the rising sun. A quaint instance of this old

superstition came under the notice of the minister of Nether-Lochaber in

the autumn of 1872. An old man had gone to a distant market to sell a

colt. He was absent so long that the wife grew anxious, more especially

desiring to know whether he had been successful in getting the price

they had agreed to ask for the colt. So she heaped up a big fire, and

sent out her young daughter to gather a bundle of green alder boughs.

These she placed on the fire; then going outside the cottage watched to

see in what direction the smoke would drift as it issued from the

chimney. It so chanced that it floated eastward, and the wifie turned to

her daughter well pleased, saying she knew all was well, for she had

never known that omen fail. Nor did it do so in this case, for a few

hours later the gudeman returned, having sold his colt for a price

considerably higher than he had expected. It seems that the only

condition necessary to working this spell is, that the alder boughs must

be gathered with definite reference to the case in point, and by the

hand of a maiden. If these two points are not rigidly observed, the

augury will fail, and the smoke will drift aimlessly to and fro; the

direction of the wind is apparently a matter of no consequence. The

ever-observant narrator of the above, adds that this particular form of

witchcraft was common both among the Greeks and Romans, and was known to

the students of magic as _capnomancy_, that is, divination of smoke. It

seems, however, that when the priests drew auguries from the smoke of

the sacrifices, the most hopeful omen was that the column of smoke

should ascend direct heavenward. Perhaps the most remarkable use of the

terms east and west occurs in the old version of the creed in Gaelic,

which tells how our Lord “went east” into the place of the dead, and

“went west” into heaven. (By the way, how curious in this land of rain

to notice the derivation of the Gaelic word hell.—_I-frin_, from

_I-bhuirn_; the island of incessant rain.)

You see, in great matters, as in the least, the same insensible

reverence for the sun-god prevails. May I not even suggest a childish

derivation in the similarity between the words _deisul_ and _daisy_

(day’s eye), as faithful a follower of the bright eye of light as the

great sun-flower himself, the _Giro al Sole_—anglicé, _Jerusalem_

Artichoke!!

Of the use of the _deisul_ as a charm there are still frequent

instances. When the cattle are sick, any wise woman consulted invariably

begins her prescription by an order for three turns round the cow-byre,

with other ceremonies. This was quite recently earnestly recommended by

the cow-herd to a gentleman living on the Black Isle in Ross-shire,

whose cows were ailing. Fishermen have also told me that whenever any

accident befalls the boats, if a man is drowned, the older men are sure

to try and prove that he turned out of bed the wrong way—or that he

steered against the sun at starting!

I have just been told by a lady now living in Banffshire, that having in

her childhood taken a strong aversion to her new nurse, the servants in

the house agreed that she must have been bewitched by a previous

attendant. They therefore set her on the floor, and drew a circle round

her, with sundry ceremonies. These having failed to counteract the

charm, they took her to the great kitchen fire, whence projected an iron

crank and chain, by which the pots were suspended. This was solemnly

turned round her nine times, sunwise. Even this potent spell failed—so

she was next removed to the cow-byre, when the cow’s tail, adorned with

red thread, was in like manner passed nine times sunwise round her neck!

In the same parish there is now living an old woman, who carries a live

peat sunwise round her cottage every night, just as regularly as she

says her prayers. Moreover she is most particular about keeping a red

thread twisted round her cow’s tail, as otherwise she is convinced that

the milk would pass from her cow to her neighbour’s. Also if it is sick,

she at once kindles the old Need-fire.

A curious old book, relating Mr. Martin’s tour in the Hebrides in the

year 1690, gives sundry particulars of these old customs. In Lewis he

met the parish minister, who had just returned from his first visit to

the distant Isle of St. Ronan, where the people had greeted him with the

assurance that he was expected, as they had beheld him by second sight.

In spite of his protests they made their sunwise turn round him. They

then slew five sheep, one for each family—and making sacks of their

skins, at once filled them with barley meal, which they presented to him

as being a stranger. They told him that they always knew when either the

minister or the Earl of Seaforth had died, by the coming of a cuckoo,

which they never saw or heard at any other time. He also observed that

when the men went to the island of St. Flannan, near Lewis, in pursuit

of sea-fowl, as soon as they had effected the difficult landing, they

uncovered their heads, and made a turn sunwise, thanking God for their

safety. They then repaired to the little chapel of St. Flannan, on

approaching which, they stripped off their upper garments and laid them

on a great stone set there on purpose, after which they advanced on

their knees towards the chapel, and so went round the little building in

procession—just as the Hindus in the Himalayas do now. They then set to

work rock-fowling till the hour of vespers, when the same ceremony was

repeated. They held it unlawful to kill any sea-bird after evening

prayer, and in any case might never kill a bird with a stone.

The islanders used to say that even the birds of the air were taught by

nature to follow the _deisul_; more especially noting how the puffin, on

its arrival in March, makes a tour round the island sunwise, before it

will settle on the ground, and observes the same ceremony before its

departure in August—therefore, they said it was assuredly right that

they should make a similar turn with their boat before starting for the

fishery.

One place where the _deisul_ is still kept up is at Kilbar in the Isle

of Barra, where on St. Barr’s day (25th September), all the Roman

Catholic population attend mass in the chapel at Borve, in honour of

their tutelar saint, and then ride across the island to Kilbar, the

ancient burial-place of the M‘Neils. Each rough pony carries not only

his wild unkempt master, but also that master’s sweetheart or wife, who

in her turn carries a bunch of wild carrots. This quaint procession

marches thrice round the ruins to secure luck for the little island in

the coming year.

Of the strong popular feeling as to the ill-luck attending any

procession going contrary to the sun, an example was lately furnished in

connection with the new cemetery near Inverness; on the top of the

Fairies’ Hill (which now might rather be called, “the Hill of the

Silent”), a hill moulded by nature into the form of a mighty tumulus,

rising abruptly from the level vale below. It so strongly resembles an

artificial mound, that you can scarcely discredit the old tradition

which tells that here in long-forgotten days, certain old Scottish kings

were buried: and that it really is an ancient tumulus, which now, after

the lapse of a thousand years has been restored to its old use. A very

peaceful and calm resting-place it is for these quiet sleepers; far

above the cares and troubles of the town; already somewhat nearer heaven

than their neighbours; and lying where every light seabreeze that sweeps

up the valley from the Firth to Loch Ness, must kiss the green hillock

on its way. The regular road to this city of the dead approaches the

hill with a circuitous turn sunwise. There is, however, a shorter path

to the corner where the very poor are buried, and it has sometimes been

found convenient to bring their simple processions by this more direct

line. In various instances the people have remonstrated against such

infringement of all decency and old custom, as proposing thus to carry

the corpse against the course of the sun; so the circuitous route must

always be followed.

Another curious superstition is that the churchyard-gate (the Lych-gate)

must on no account be made to open outwards—otherwise the spirits of the

dead would pass out, and trouble the land. It must open inwards, and the

dead must be carried in feet forwards.

The opening of a new churchyard always awakens some of these strange

fancies; there is an especial dread of being the first laid in such new

ground, as it is firmly believed that the Evil One claims all such

first-fruits—so any strong-minded spirit who desires that his funeral

should inaugurate a new kirkyard, is a public benefactor. When the sunny

burial-ground, on the fir-clad hill above Forres, was first made, it

waited long before a suitable victim could be found. At last a miserable

old drunken soldier died, whose future prospects seemed so very poor,

that they could not well be made worse; so he was forthwith installed in

these new quarters. So too in the case of the new cemetery at Inverness.

The anxious question was solved by the arrival of an American ship, in

which a poor young officer had died of fever, and his shipmates buried

him on the Fairies’ Green Hill, unheeding, or ignorant of the

consequences.

Among the curious customs connected with funerals, one, still common in

some counties (in Aberdeen and Banff invariably), is, that before the

coffin leaves the house a couple of chairs are laid on the ground, and

the coffin is set standing across them. Then when it is raised, the

chairs are kicked over, to symbolize that the dead has no further use

for anything on earth. The chairs must be left untouched till the

mourners return from the grave, and it is sometimes a matter of

difficulty to prevent the children from going near them in their play.

What may be the origin of this curious “fret” no one has the smallest

idea, but it is rarely if ever omitted in the districts I have named. In

these it was also customary, till within the last thirty years, to let

loose every animal on a farm, at the death of the owner; a faint trace,

perhaps, of old days, when they might have been sacrificed to appease

his spirit, or for his future use; as, when the Scythians and

Scandinavians, or the wild tribes of Northern India and America slew the

favourite horse of the dead, that he might find his accustomed steed

awaiting him on the happy hunting grounds. Or, it may be, that the

thought symbolized, was the newly found freedom of the spirit, in token

of which those same Indians carried cages full of birds to the newly

made grave, and there gave liberty to the captives, that by their joyous

flight from the empty prison, they might tell of a glad unshackled life

“in the fields of the viewless air.”

Formerly it was the custom immediately after a death to extinguish all

fires in the house, while on the breast of the dead was set a wooden

platter, whereon were placed a lighted candle, a handful of salt, and

one of earth, not mixed; the former being the emblem of the spirit, the

latter of the body, whose separation was hereby shown. Far more graceful

is the type in use among such Jews as hold the resurrection of the body,

and who symbolize its union with an immortal spirit, by a glass lamp

with a burning flame—the notion being, that as the glass if broken into

fragments may be restored to its original perfection by the glass-blower

who first produced it, so the human body, though dissolved into dust,

may, with equal ease, be re-created by its Maker. So the burning lamp is

placed at the head of the dead, as a reminder to the living.

One remarkable practice which, till very recently, existed in Lewis and

other isles, was that of carrying fire all round the houses and goods of

different members of the community, men especially, round women after

the birth of children, and round infants until baptized, to protect them

from evil spirits. There can be no doubt that this was a trace of the

old worship of Baal. Though the custom of encircling a cow with fire,

after she has calved, is probably now extinct, one somewhat similar is

still common in Shetland, where a cat being set on the cow’s neck, is

drawn along by her tail, to that of the cow. Then the cat is placed on

the middle of the cow’s back, and drawn down one side and up the other,

tail foremost. Thus the interesting mother is inclosed in a magic

circle, which makes her proof against the enchantments of the trows or

trolls, and the elfin tribes who dwell in the green hillocks, and whose

haunts no Shetlander would pass after nightfall, without carrying with

him a live coal.

These islanders are said still to retain various strange superstitions,

one of the most remarkable is described as “casting the heart,” which

means that when anyone is wasting away from some vague consumptive

disease, he assumes himself to be the victim of some witchcraft. He

therefore calls in some skilled woman, who with many mystic ceremonies,

melts lead, and pours it through a key, into cold water, repeating the

operation till the lead assumes a form something like a heart, which the

patient then wears as an amulet, hung round the neck, and next the skin.

So you see you need not go to oriental lands in search of such charms.

Though the custom of _encircling_ the cow is now probably extinct, and

its meaning forgotten, many old farmers believe that to _measure_ her,

is a certain cure for divers diseases; this doubtless being a trace of

the former fire-circle.

Of course, in seeking for traces of the old fire-worship, we are most

likely to find them on those days when the great fire festivals were

celebrated. Of these, the four principal were held on the eve of May-day

or Spring; on Midsummer’s-eve; on Hallow-E’en, the Autumn festival; and

at Yule, the midwinter feast. There were also sundry lesser festivals.

The first of which we still find some trace is “Brose-day,” which is one

of the merriest farm holidays of the year—more commonly known perhaps by

its Christian name of Fastern’s E’en—that is, the eve of Ash Wednesday.

It is, in fact, the carnival of Scotland; and, like that merry

saturnalia, is an undoubted relic of pre-Christian times. It is said to

have been one of the Phœnician and Celtic Fire festivals, with

ceremonies akin to Hallow-e’en and Yule. We all know how, on this day,

all the farm servants and cottagers go from house to house, each

carrying his own spoon and bowl to “sup brose;” that is, a thick gruel,

wherein are placed divers objects of mystic meaning—buttons, coins, a

thimble, a bit of red thread—which denote the future fate of whoever

finds them in his portion. Similar objects are hidden in the bannocks or

cakes, which every good wife distributes. These, like the pancakes of

England, must be made with eggs and milk. The person who bakes them must

not speak one word till her task is done. She may then tell the fortunes

of all comers by dropping the white of an egg into water. Formerly this

was a great day for cock-fighting; doubtless a relic of olden times when

cocks were offered to the sun, and when these various preparations of

flour, eggs, and oatmeal were also among the things sacrificed. Many an

old wife in the Highlands, who never perhaps heard of Shrove Tuesday,

can tell you the doggrel lines by which she finds that movable feast:—

“First comes Candlemas,

Then the New Moon,

The Tuesday after that

Is Fastern’s Ne’en.”[38]

In some parts of France we still find traces of this old feast; but,

just as in Scotland, many of the observances of May-day are reserved for

the following Sunday; so in this case, the ancient merry-makings have

been adjourned till the first Sunday in Lent. Thus we find the

“Faschenottes” a rural festival of the Vosges; when, immediately after

vespers, all the young folk assemble on the open green. The lads and

lassies in separate companies each form a chain, and commence wheeling

round three times. They then sing in chorus, “Whom shall we marry?” and

having elected a couple, they dance round them three times. This goes

on, amid much kissing, till all the company are paired, and go whirling

on like mad creatures. On a given signal, each girl receives a torch

brought from the church, and all go up together to set fire to a pile of

wood in the middle of the green. Then they resume their whirling dance;

and when the bonfire is nearly extinct, each couple joins in the

scramble for a brand, and those who succeed in getting one, carry it off

in triumph to the home of the young woman.

A very similar custom is observed in the Lyonnois on the first Sunday in

Lent, which is called the “Dimanche des Brandons,” from the fact that

all the peasants on this night go into their orchards carrying

fire-brands, and walk round every fruit tree, adjuring it to bear fruit

abundantly the following season, lest it be cut down and burnt.

As to the Roman Carnival so strangely akin to the Eastern Sun-festival

held at the same period, there can be little doubt that it was a feast

of Carneus, under which name the Sun-god was sometimes worshipped, and

the name also from which the Armoric _Carnac_, and the Gaelic _Carnach_,

and _Carn_-fires were derived. The alteration of the word to Carne-vale,

“adieu to flesh,” was simply the usual expedient of adapting Pagan

feasts to Christian uses.

If we turn to the far East where Krishna, _alias_ Heri, the Sun-god, is

also worshipped as Carna, “the radiant one,” we shall there find the

identical feast still observed throughout the length and breadth of

Hindoostan, where the Hooli festival is kept as the maddest saturnalia

of the year. It is especially sacred to Bhavani, the goddess of the

spring, in honour of whose re-awakening the people make merry, and hold

a carnival, in which, instead of bonbons, they throw powders of every

brilliant colour to represent how nature strews the earth with flowers

of every hue. The effect of such a game on the white robes of the

natives can be imagined. In an old book of Asiatic researches it is

stated that on this day the Hindus invariably erected a Maypole hung

with garlands, around which the people danced, precisely as in England.

This may be the custom still in some districts. Such a practice seems

clearly to point to a festival celebrated by the common ancestors of the

Eastern and Western worlds. The custom of sending folk on fools’ errands

(April fools in short), is one of the amusements of the Hooli.

The Buddhists likewise celebrate a great Spring festival in February,

which they call the festival of the new year. It lasts fifteen days,

during which sacrifices are offered of tea, butter, flour, and milk

(animal sacrifices being prohibited), and great feasting is kept up,

with dances and illuminations. In short, it is the great carnival of

Thibet. They hold a second festival at the commencement of summer; a

third at the beginning of autumn.

A somewhat similar Spring festival is observed among the snake-eating

aborigines of India. I mean those hill tribes of the Eastern

Highlands—the Coles, or Coels, and Santhals—whom Bishop Heber describes

as the Gaels of the East. In the month of April they assemble by

thousands, and devote several days to feasting and dancing. Captain

Sherwill has described one of these wild midnight meetings by

torchlight. There were about five thousand half-naked savages present.

In the centre of an open plain was erected a high stage, whereon sat the

more distinguished men. This seemed to be the axle of a wheel, whence

radiated living spokes; in other words, long strings of women, twenty or

thirty in a line, each holding her neighbour by the waistband. There

were about four hundred women thus dancing at once—chanting in measured

time; while the men danced wildly in a great outer circle, playing the

maddest, wildest music on pipes, and flutes, and drums, covered with

monkey skins. This huge living wheel rotates on its own axis, slowly

turning from left to right—that is, sunwise—and fresh relays of dancers

are always ready to take the place of the weary. The women wear graceful

drapery, and adorn their hair with flowers, or bunches of red Tussore

silk, while the men tie bunches of porcupine quills or tall peacock’s

feathers round their heads; and these nodding plumes add a finishing

touch to this strange wild scene, which no doubt bore some allusion to

the great wheel of light, a symbol well understood by the Santhals, who

at the commencement of their rebellion in 1855, declared that their god

had appeared to them _as a flame of fire, in form like the wheel of a

bullock-cart_.

The wheel, as a sacred emblem, is found on a considerable number of

ancient sculptures in Southern India—generally on those of the

Buddhists, who are supposed to have adopted this symbol from the

sun-worshipping tribes who preceded them. It is also held sacred by the

followers of Vishnu, who is, in fact an incarnation of the Sun-god, and

whose temple-spire is distinguished by the mystic wheel which surmounts

it. Moreover, every temple of Vishnu (_alias_ Juggernaut) is provided

with a car raised on great wheels, whereon, at midsummer, the idol is

drawn forth for an airing—the circuit it performs being held symbolic of

the course of the heavenly bodies.

We also find the wheel carved on some of the gems of the Egyptian

gnostics, and generally in connection with other recognised symbols of

the sun. Sometimes a winged griffin, with triple human head, and riding

on horseback, is shown rolling the wheel of eternity. Sometimes the

griffin has the head of a cock, while his body terminates in a coil of

serpents. Thus the principal emblems of sun-worship are condensed into

the space of small gems.

It certainly is curious to observe how many nations have attached a

religious signification to circular dances. There seems reason to

believe that the sacred dancing of the Israelites was of this mystic

figure; and we are told that the Hebrew word used by King David in the

verse “Praise Him with timbrels and dances,” implies a circular dance.

These were also commonly performed by the Druids in the oak groves and

forests of Gaul and Britain; and I think we stumbled on some very

curious nineteenth century chips of these old blocks at Helston, seven

miles from Penryn in Cornwall, where, from time immemorial, the ancient

Spring Festival has been observed on May Day old style, that is to say,

the 8th May.

Helston derived its name from a huge boulder of dark granite, which erst

(so runs the legend) lay at the mouth of hell, whence for some

diabolical purpose it was brought to earth by the Arch Fiend. But as he

passed over Cornwall, St. Michael, the faithful guardian saint of the

land, espied him, and gave him battle, wherein the Prince of the Air,

being worsted, fled, and in his flight dropped the hell-stone, which, as

a matter of course, became thenceforth an object of superstitious

reverence. The stone was broken up some years ago, as being handy

building material, and its fragments were shown to us, built into the

stables of the Angel Inn.

The Spring Festival is there known as the Furry or Floral Day and

observed as a general holiday. The whole town is decorated with flowers

and flags, long garlands of flowers are festooned across the road, shops

are closed, bells are ringing, and the day is given up to festivity, of

which the main feature is the Furry dance, formerly a circling twining

dance, all holding hands and carrying a garland, now degenerated into a

jiggy polka, which keeps time with the Furry tune, a quaint old Cornish

air. The dancers, of course, are adorned with flowers. Every house in

the town being thrown open to the revellers, the long procession starts

from the old inn, headed by the musicians; these again being preceded by

the lord of the manor and the civic authorities represented in these

degenerate days by a common domestic “Bobby,” who clears the way for the

dancers and leads them in and out of every house in all the main streets

of the town. The furniture has all been previously cleared away, so as

to leave ample space for the dancers, who, circling in at the back door,

dance through the kitchen or parlour, and out at the front door into the

street or garden, and thus visit every house in succession. As the

procession whirls onward it is gradually increased by a multitude of

bystanders, who at first had been too bashful to claim partners, but

who, after a while, begin beating time to the irresistible Furry melody,

and soon, yielding to the general excitement, find themselves whirling

along to its quaint tuneful measure. This is called going the round of

the town, and the ceremony is repeated several times in the course of

the day. Whether the old bonfires still blaze at night I failed to

learn.

Another trace of these old festivals is to be seen at Penzance, where

the Midsummer Eve rejoicings, instead of being celebrated on the Eve of

St. John, are transferred to that of St. Peter, which immediately

follows, St. Peter being the patron saint of fishers. On this night the

fishwives assemble with lighted torches in one hand, and, each grasping

her neighbour with the disengaged hand, dances a curious circling dance,

somewhat resembling those of the Himalayan girls, though lacking their

elegance.

There can be no doubt that some similar fire festival of old gave rise

to that mad scramble for the holy fire which the Greek and Armenian

monks in Jerusalem pretend to receive from heaven on the Greek Easter

Eve. Just as our forefathers were wont to gather round the Druid

priests, to receive from them the Heaven-sent gift, so on this solemn

night a vast multitude of pilgrims assemble in the Church of the Holy

Sepulchre, and work themselves up to a state of frenzy and madness while

waiting for the fire which shall ensure their salvation. The bishops and

priests, bearing banners and crucifixes, smoking censers and lighted

candles, _march thrice round the church_ in solemn procession, invoking

the aid of every picture, altar, and relic, to win for them the fiery

blessing. A Greek and an Armenian bishop now disappear into a small room

adjoining the Holy Sepulchre, and presently heavenly flames are seen to

issue from the door and from the small circular windows. Priests of the

various sects stand waiting, torch in hand, ready to receive the holy

fire; and all the multitude press forward in a tumultuous scramble, to

kindle candles and torches, either from the torches of the priests or

from the living flames that play round the inner chamber. In their

frenzy they press forward, no matter at what cost, many of the feebler

pilgrims being literally crushed to death, or trampled under foot in the

confusion. Kinglake mentions that in one year two hundred people were

killed in the awful struggle. When at length all the torches have been

kindled, and when the atmosphere of the church has become stifling by

reason of the smoke and heat of the flames, the bishops come forth from

their hiding-place, and forming a solemn procession, they once more

_march thrice round the church_, giving thanks to the Almighty for the

fire so miraculously vouchsafed.

With the omission of the sham miracle, the observance of this night

would seem to be much the same wherever the Greek Church rules, and

awfully solemn in truth is the hushed silence when in great cities such

as Moscow or Athens vast multitudes, holding in their hands unlighted

torches, assemble in the streets or in the churches at the dark midnight

hour, such perfect stillness being maintained that no sound breaks the

deathlike silence, save the voices of the priests, chanting solemn

_Misereres_. Suddenly the firing of a cannon announces that Easter Day

has begun, and in one moment the oppressive darkness is succeeded by a

blaze of light from thousands of torches and tapers, which seems to run

along the length and breadth of the city in streams of fire, shedding a

red glow on the multitudes who, with one voice, join in the triumphant

shout of “Christ is risen! Christ is risen!”

The Church of Rome pretends to no miracle, when on Easter morning she

rekindles the lights on the altar (which had been extinguished on Good

Friday) with holy fire brought from the Sistine Chapel, where (according

to the rubric) it has been kindled by sparks struck from a stone, in

remembrance of Christ the Living Corner Stone. Nevertheless it is

interesting to notice how very many pagan nations have observed the same

custom of once a year extinguishing their holy fire, and then rekindling

a new flame. We have already spoken of the practice in Britain and in

Persia. We find it also amongst the ancient Peruvians, and the old

Romans. The latter, we are told, always renewed the sacred fire of Vesta

on the 1st of March.

Very similar is the practice of the modern Sun-worshippers in Chaldea,

as described by Layard in his “Nineveh.” He found at Semil a vast

concourse of people assembled at a temple known as the temple of Sheikh

Shems, that is, the sun, round which pastured a drove of white oxen

sacred to the sun, and never slain except at great festivals, when their

flesh was given to the poor. As night drew on the priests lighted

innumerable lamps, which were suspended from rocks and trees through all

the valley, and which glittered from every recess of the dark forest and

the mountain side. As they moved to and fro, carrying this sacred fire,

the people pressed forward and passed their right hands through the

flame, and touched their right eyebrows with the hands thus purified,

which they then kissed devoutly. Those who carried children did likewise

by them. Thousands of torches were then lighted, gleaming on stream and

foliage as the people moved to and fro in the depths of the forest,

while from every side rose a pathetic chant, with a melodious flute

accompaniment, the effect of which was strangely melancholy and

harmonious. This shortly changed into a wild, shrill chorus, accompanied

by an insane dance, which was kept up till the worshippers fell

exhausted to the ground.

It is from this great Spring Festival that we still retain our poetical

name for the eve of May Day, Beltane or Beil-teine, which means Baal’s

fire, a name familiar to every Highlander. So late as the beginning of

the present century it was customary in some remote corners of the

Highlands, especially in Stirlingshire and Perthshire, for the young

folk to meet on the moors on the 1st of May, and after cutting a “round

table” in the green sod by digging such a trench round it as to allow of

their sitting in a great circle, to kindle a fire in the middle, and

cook a mess of eggs and milk, which all shared. Then they baked oat

cakes, a bit for each person present, and one bit was burnt black. These

cakes were shuffled in a man’s bonnet, and each person, blindfold, drew

one. Whoever got the black bit had to leap three times through the

flames. The original meaning of which was that he became a sacrifice to

Baal, and, doubtless, in old days was actually offered up; the object

being to secure the favour of the Sun-god, and consequently a good

harvest. I have been told by several persons that they have found traces

of these Beltane circles in quite recent years, so probably the practice

is not yet extinct.

The circular trench was of course only another form of the same

symbolism as the Druidic stone circles, within which the fires of Baal

were continually kept burning. A curious proof of this is the fact,

recorded by the late Lady Baird, of Ferntower, in Perthshire, that every

year at Beltane a number of men and women assembled at an ancient circle

of stones on her property near Crieff, and, having lighted a fire in the

centre, as their forefathers had been accustomed to do from time

immemorial, proceeded to draw lots for the burnt oat-cake, as described

above, he who drew it having straightway to leap through the flames. A

strangely unmeaning ceremony if, as some learned men would have us

believe, these circles are merely sepulchral, but very suggestive

indeed, if we are content to accept the traditions of our fathers of

their having been the temples on whose altars unhallowed fire was wont

to burn.

In some districts the shepherds varied the Beltane festival. They cut

the circular trench and kindled a fire like their neighbours, and after

marching thrice _deas-sol_ round the fire, they sat in a great circle

and shared the mess of eggs, milk and oatmeal, pouring out part thereof

as a libation to the spirits. This done they each took pieces of

oat-cake, specially prepared for the occasion, each cake having upon it

nine raised knobs of mystic meaning. This they cast into the fire,

dedicating it to the eagle, the gled, the weasel, the fox, the brock,

and all other baneful creatures, who were thus bribed to spare the

flocks. This custom was commonly observed up to the middle of last

century, even in civilized Morayshire. When all the eggs were roasted

and all the cakes baked, the surplus was carried home, and every man

gathered certain herbs, which he tied to his staff, and fastened bunches

of the same above his cow-byre to preserve his cattle from all disease

until the following May Day. Every cow-herd was bound to wear a sprig of

rowan, to keep off the warlocks from his charge, and the cattle were

considered safe from witches provided there were sprays of rowan

(mountain-ash) and honeysuckle in their byre.

I am told that in some parts of Perthshire it is still the custom for

the cow-herd of the village to go his rounds on May morning collecting

fresh eggs and meal, and then to lead the way to some hill top, where a

hole is dug and a fire lighted therein; then lots are cast, and he on

whom the lot falls must leap seven times over the fire, while the young

folk dance round in a circle. Then they cook their eggs and cakes, and

all “sit down to eat and drink and rise up to play.”

On the first Sunday in May, in olden days, the municipal corporations in

every town elected an Abbot of Unreason to lead the sports of the

people. Prior to the Reformation they acted miracle plays, but

afterwards only such lawless and unseemly plays as turned Romanism into

ridicule. So these were, after a while, put down. Nevertheless the

municipal recognition of the day continued, and in Edinburgh, so late as

fifty years ago, the magistrates used to walk down the Canongate in

procession on the first Sunday after Beltane, decorated with flowers,

and carrying large nosegays. Imagine the feelings of these grave men, if

it had occurred to them that they were rejoicing over Bel’s new birth!

This old custom has passed away with the mirth of the Maypoles, and now

the day is only observed by young folk, who try to be astir, and to

climb to some high ground in time to hail the first appearance of the

May sun, and bathe their faces in May dew.

Many such walks you and I can remember in the balmy spring mornings,

when we used all to be up and gathering the glistening dew-drops by the

bonnie burn-side, or from the gossamers on the heathery hill, startling

the roe from their sanctuary in the deep fir woods. Then home again in

the sunlight, before idler folk were well awake to know what pleasure

they had missed. In the middle ages this was the day for the

Wapping-shaw, or weapon show, when all the king’s lieges were obliged to

repair to the weapon-shawing with their hagbuts, culverins, and other

ornaments!

Of the Swiss “Wapping-shaw” we still find a trace at Bürglen, the

birthplace of Tell, where a certain meadow has for ages been set apart

as the field of council of the men of Uri. Here, on the first Sunday in

May, they assemble, marching thither in procession, bearing a huge

bull’s head. They are accompanied by flags and music, and by ancient

Switzers dressed in black and yellow, carrying buffalo horns on poles to

represent the arms of the city.

In England, as might be expected from the multitude of their Druidical

remains, Cornwall and Devon are the districts where Beltane and its

kindred feasts have been most fully retained. And indeed their weird

rites would seem strangely in keeping with such scenes of bleak

desolation as you may find on Dartmoor, where an irregular ridge of grey

granite forms a rocky backbone to the barren moor, studded here and

there with enormous blocks, piled together in broken masses, or running

up into sharp grey peaks, towering gaunt and grim above the mists and

cloud-drift, which float around in ragged shreds.

These peaks are known as Tors. One of them bears the name of Belevor, in

perpetual memory of the awful sacrifices once offered to Bel upon its

rocky crest. A little further lies Great Mis Tor, especially sacred to

Misor, a name under which Astarte, the moon-goddess, was worshipped in

Britain. On the summit of this crag there is a singular circular pan

excavated in the rock, probably for some sacrificial purpose. It is

about three yards in circumference, and eight inches deep. In every

direction you stumble on traces of the strange forgotten faith of our

forefathers.

The most curious old custom still retained in this neighbourhood occurs

in the village of Holne, on Dartmoor; at least, it was kept up so late

as 1853, and probably continues to be observed. Before daybreak on May

morning all the young men of the village assemble in a field sloping to

face the east, where stands a mystic granite pillar (or menhir). Thence

they all proceed together to the moor, where they run down a fine young

ram, and bringing it in triumph to the pillar, there cut its throat, and

roast it whole—skin, wool, and all. At midday they return thither with

all the village lassies to celebrate the ram feast, and a grand struggle

takes place for a slice of the ram, a taste of which is supposed to

bring luck for the year to lad or lass. Then wrestling and other games

commence, with abundant cider, and dancing is kept up till midnight.

Here again is an obvious trace of oriental practice, a similar festival

having been observed by the ancient Persians at this season; that is,

when the sun entered the sign of Aries. The people sacrificed rams to

Genshid, the reformer of their solar year, and in his honour stamped the

ram’s head on their coins. Lord Herbert of Cherbury identifies the

ram-god with the sun, but adds that _his_ worshippers would not eat

mutton!

Perhaps the most graceful May morning custom still lingering in England,

is one observed at Oxford, where before daybreak all the choristers and

many students ascend Old Magdalen tower, and alternately facing north,

south, east and west, greet the rising sun, and all awakening nature,

with joyous chants.

Of the old English Maypole and all its accompaniments of mirth and

feasting, we surely do not need reminding. Probably it was more nearly

akin to the feasts of Flora, as observed by the old Romans on the

Kalends of May, than to the fiery sun-festival But it does seem strange

to us, who know Cornhill only as a centre of London’s busiest business

life to hear of days when the streets were crowded with merry-makers,

and gaily dressed maidens and smart ’prentices danced and frolicked,

while the gigantic Maypole, adorned with flags and streamers, was

dragged by forty oxen, all decked with flowers, through Cornhill to the

Church of St. Andrew, Undershaft: so named because of the huge Maypole

or shaft, far overtopping the church, which from time immemorial had

been there erected. Near this Maypole were erected summer-halls, bowers,

and arbours; and feasting and dancing went on all day, till evening drew

on, when great bonfires were lighted. Another celebrated London Maypole

stood in the Strand, at the entrance of a street formerly known as

Little Drury Lane, but which after the days of Cromwell was renamed

Maypole Alley. It was a stately mast of cedar-wood, 134 feet long,

prepared in the London docks, and carried to the Strand by a detachment

of sailors, with bands playing and colours flying, amid the rejoicings

of the people. When grave citizens ceased to care for such frivolities,

Sir Isaac Newton purchased the spar, and conveyed it to Wanstead in

Essex to support a great telescope; and thus the poor old Maypole was

forced to lend its aid to solemn science after all, a new phase of

homage done to the host of heaven!

In the Isle of Man, the month of May is still called Boabdyn or Baal’s

fire, and the custom of bonfires on the Eve of May Day is kept up to

such an extent “as to give the appearance of a general conflagration,

whilst the inhabitants blow horns and hold a kind of jubilee.” Until

very recently the Manx used to light two fires near together, and cause

their cattle to pass between them, as a protection against murrain. The

origin of these fires was of course in honour of Baal.

The same custom prevailed in Ireland up to the tenth century, where May

Day is still called La Bealtine, or Latha, which in Celtic means day;

and is to be traced in many parts of Germany and Holland, where the

Beltane fire festivals are still fully observed. In Scandinavia this

night is called Baldersbal or Balder’s-pyre, Balder meaning literally

bright-day, and every hill is crested with fire. How Balder is connected

with sun-worship I do not know, as he was the god of poetry, son of

Odin. He was killed by an arrow made of mistletoe, the only plant which

Friga, his mother, had neglected to enlist in her service when she bound

all other plants to abstain from harming her son. This insignificant

parasite made her pay dear for her contempt, and Scandinavian maids and

mothers still gather the mistletoe in sadness of heart.

I am told that the Greeks at Athens still keep May Day according to the

old style, on the 13th day of the month, whether with bonfires, I cannot

learn. In the centre of the public rooms they hang a circular loaf of

bread, with a hollow centre, which is filled with dyed eggs. There (as

in all other lands, north, south, east, and west) the children are

supplied with the coloured eggs, now generally known as Easter eggs; the

ancient emblem of nature’s new life having thus become a Christian

symbol of the Resurrection.

This in itself is a very remarkable link between customs old and new.

How little our lads and lassies on Highland braes or English downs,

dream, as they go out on Easter Monday with their basket of

gaily-coloured eggs, dyed with yellow whinblossoms, log-wood, cochineal,

or coloured rags, that their playthings are, in fact, the most ancient

symbol of a renewed life; and that from the earliest ages the Persians

have celebrated the festival of the sun’s new birth, the New Year, by

exchanging brilliantly dyed eggs; blue, red, and yellow. The ancient

Egyptians also had an egg-feast in honour of the god whom they adored as

the Judge of the Dead; and heathen Romans and Greeks likewise reverenced

this mystic symbol, which their Christian descendants now pass from hand

to hand on Easter morning with the greeting “Christ is risen!”

In Germany we find a quaint variety of this custom. The eggs are laid in

a nest of moss, and a hare is set on it. The nest being hidden, the

children are sent forth to seek the hare’s nest and eggs. Whatever

association of ideas there may be between hares and eggs, we find it

again recurring in England, for at Coleshill, in Warwickshire, it is

supposed that any young man who can catch a hare and bring it to the

parson before ten o’clock on Easter Monday may claim in return a gift of

a hundred eggs, and a calf’s head for breakfast, besides a silver groat.

We gain a hint of the egg-giving custom in olden days from an entry in

the household expenses of Edward I. to the effect that eighteen-pence

had been paid for four hundred Easter eggs! They were even introduced by

the Jews in some mystic sense, in celebrating the feast of the Passover.

From them the custom was adopted by the Greek Church, and in the museum

at Lambeth (collected by Tradescant, who was the Dutch gardener of

Charles I.) there were exhibited specimens of “The Easter eggs of the

Patriarchs of Jerusalem!”

At the present day the Greek Patriarch at Moscow gives gilt or red eggs

to all who are presented to kiss his hand on Easter Day. He gives one,

two, or three eggs, according to the rank of the recipient. All over

Russia the custom prevails; all classes carry eggs, generally coloured

red; and the ordinary greeting when two friends meet, is to kiss and

exchange eggs, with the salutation ‘Christ is risen;’ the same

inscription being written on many of the eggs. These ceremonies are kept

up for a term varying from four to fifteen days. At Smyrna too,

travellers tell us how at Easter-time they are persecuted by crowds of

boys offering coloured eggs for sale.

Thus in France, Italy, Germany, and Russia, the same custom is kept up,

with more definite meaning than in this land, where I doubt whether many

of our children could explain the name of Pask Eggs (Paschal), which

rises so readily to their lips. Certainly our Presbyterian Highlanders

have no respect for Easter, yet I have seen children on Speyside dyeing

their eggs as eagerly as the little ones on the moors of Northumberland,

or in the lowlands of Fife and Stirling, where many a kindly cottage

wife will offer you a Pask Egg from her bowl of carefully dyed

treasures.

It certainly is curious to find this true name for the solemn Paschal

feast in such common use, amongst people who have forgotten all

reverence for such times and seasons; while we Episcopalians, who so

deeply honour this Easter festival, and who would fain associate it only

with the traditions of Judea, know it only by a name which, according to

the Venerable Bede, is derived from that of Eastre, a Saxon goddess

whose feast was celebrated at this season. How the popular name came to

be so widely known in this northern land is a question of some

interest—a trace perhaps of an earlier Christian teaching, which had not

deemed it expedient to borrow names from Saxon mythology. That this

goddess claimed the service of fire we may infer from an ancient entry

in the disbursements of an old London church, St. Mary-at-Hill, where

sixpence is charged for a quarter of _coles_ for the hallowed fire on

Easter Eve. In later years great Paschal tapers weighing 300 lb. were

adopted in lieu of the bonfires.

The next great Fire festival was on what we now call the Eve of St.

John, or Midsummer’s-eve, when the sun had run half his course. At the

present time this is especially observed on the shores of the Baltic—in

Prussia, Lithuania, and the lands adjacent. Indeed the name of the

Baltic, and of many Scandinavian places, still point to the old worship.

Lamartine alludes to the ceremonies of this night as now practised in

the French Alps. He tells how the peasants have processions, and carry

lighted torches of pine-wood and straw. Should they wish especial luck

to any young couple, they march round them in a circle, just as the

islanders of the West used to do.

Doubtless similar traces of old customs might still be found in the

highlands of Auvergne, once the stronghold of Druidism, and the province

of all others where Paganism longest reigned in France. Here we are told

that idolatrous worship lingered till very recent times; and though the

council of Clermont fulminated anathemas against those who worshipped

stones—who carried the Eucharist to the graves, or who ate meats offered

to devils—still the old rites went on. So that a May-day or a

Midsummer’s-eve in Auvergne might still afford us some specimens of

Christianised heathendom.

But with equal right may we seek traces of the old Paganism on the

shores of Armorica—inasmuch as both in Brittany, and more especially in

Finisterre, the people clung to their ancient worship with such

tenacity, that beyond the mere fact of baptism, they could hardly, two

hundred years ago, be called Christians at all; but continued to

worship, as their fathers had done before them, amid the huge ghostly

temples which still abound in all that district. Thus we hear of zealous

priests going forth in the seventeenth century as Missionaries to preach

Christianity to the people of Finisterre as almost a new faith. Even

then Church Councils vainly strove to stop the pilgrimages to these

Druidic circles.

At the present day they blend, with picturesque effect, in various

scenes of peasant life. Thus, on Midsummer’s-eve, all the lads and

lassies in Brittany assemble at divers groups of old weather-beaten

stones. The lads wear green corn, the girls a bunch of flax, with blue

blossoms. They lay their corn and flax on the great grey stones, and

dance round them till sunset. Then, according as they find their flowers

fresh or withered, they read the fate of their love; and return home,

each lad leading his lass by one finger. As the darkness closes in,

bonfires are lighted on every hill-top, lighting up all the land with

their red glow, and the young people dance wildly round them, hurrying

from one bonfire to the next; for all manner of luck in love and life

attends those who have danced round nine fires before midnight.

In Sardinia, on this night, the people light great bonfires in their

villages and at every cross-road. Men make compacts one with another by

passing their hands three times through the flames while grasping a

stick. Moreover, they cause their children to leap through the flames,

just as their Phœnician ancestors doubtless did in bygone ages. They

then go in procession to a church, near which they sit in a circle, and

feast on eggs fried with divers herbs. In Southern Germany this night is

known as Johannisfeuer; but further north, the principal observance is

of Osterfeuer, now celebrated as Easter, though originally held on

May-day; our Beltane being there known as Walpurgis-nacht—the night of

the witches’ revel—when the depths of the Black Forest and the wild

caverns of the Harz Mountains re-echoed the shouts of their orgies.