skill, dreamt not of personal danger. He showered blow on blow with the
intemperate fury of a maniac; all his aim, every effort, being directed
to destroy his foe. Cameron, with less bodily strength, was possessed of
calm and dauntless courage, superior skill in the use of his weapon, and
unmatched personal activity. Unwilling to harm the brother of the object
of his affection, he only defended himself, retiring and warding off the
furious but aimless blows of Macpherson. The frowning cheek and brow of
the baffled chief waxed grimmer with disappointed hate; and, changing
his mode of attack, he swept circling round his young and agile
antagonist, endeavouring thus to throw him off his guard. Cameron,
turning dexterously on his heel, held him still at the sword's point,
and allowed him to expend his strength in desperate efforts of fierce
but ineffectual violence. During their combat, however, some of
Macpherson's _gillies_ approached the spot; and Cameron perceived them
nearing him with kindling eyes, and holding in their impatient hands the
_skean dhu_ half unsheathed. He knew that Macpherson was as honourable
as brave; and he knew that he might with perfect safety trust his life
to the honour of any highlander, under any circumstance where the
peculiar honour of his clan was not concerned. But he also knew that no
clansman would esteem any deed a crime which should preserve the life or
the reputation of his chief. There was, he saw, but one means of saving
his life. Collecting all his strength, he beat aside one of Macpherson's
furious blows, and bounding upon him as a crouching tiger springs upon
his prey, he wrenched his claymore from his hand, dashed him to the
earth with the mere violence of the assault; wielding a weapon in either
hand, he struck to the ground two of the opposing clansmen, plunged into
the thickets as a mountain stag bursts through his covert when the
opening pack is near, and disappeared in an instant among the crashing
and closing boughs of the underwood. Foaming with disappointed rage,
Macpherson sprung from the ground, snatched a _skean dhu_ from one of
his prostrated followers, and shouting, "Revenge!" rushed into the
thickets in headlong pursuit. In vain. A fleeter foot than that of Allan
Cameron never pressed the mountain heath, and, in a short time, he was
far beyond all danger from his enraged pursuer; who, after ranging every
dell and nook in vain, returned to Castle Feracht, chafing and foaming
with impotent rage, and uttering dire but unavailing threats of
vengeance.
What would it avail to relate the chieftain's wrath, when he found
himself compelled to forego his hopes of sweet revenge, and to endure
what he esteemed a new and a more daring insult? Fret and chafe as he
might, he knew that his high-souled sister would not be deterred, by
threats of personal injury, from following the bent of her own
inclination. He therefore assembled his followers in her presence, and
caused them all to bind themselves, by a deep oath, to avenge the
quarrel of their chief upon Allan Cameron, should he ever dare to set
foot within Glen Feracht; enforcing his commands by threats of deadliest
vengeance, should any clansman show him favour, hold intelligence with
him, or meet him in terms of peace. Elizabeth Macpherson saw his
purpose; but she scorned to display her emotion. A flush indeed mantled
her brow, and her eye shed one sparkle of indignation--but she remained
silent. Fraternal affection was banished the halls of Castle Feracht. An
increasing gloom and moodiness of heart began to sink upon the rugged
chief; and, at length, to prevent his dark soul's loneliness from
becoming altogether insupportable, he began to take an interest in the
affairs, first of his own clan, next of the neighbouring clans, and
finally of the nation. He thus became acquainted with many a wild and
many a wondrous legend, which might otherwise never have reached his
observation; and his rather uncultivated mind was not able to resist the
encroachments of superstition. Among others, a firm belief in the
reality of the _taisch_, or second-sight, took possession of his mind;
and he listened to the many almost incredible relations concerning it,
with a wild excitement of spirit. These changes in the manners and
pursuits of Macpherson, were, from time to time, reported to Allan
Cameron, in spite of the stern threats which had been denounced against
all who should hold intercourse with him. A youth, the cho-alt (foster
brother) of Allan Cameron, had repeatedly, under the assumed character
of a wandering hunter, entered within the precincts of Glen Feracht,
where he was unknown; and, picking up all the information that could be
obtained, without awakening suspicion, returned with it to his youthful
chief.
Ewan Macpherson was one day informed, by his aged _henchman_, Ranald
Glas, that a second-sighted man had arrived in the glen, conducted,
according to his own account, by the power of the taisch: that he was
extremely old, and his visions were appallingly vivid: his thoughts were
terror, and his words were fire. The revelations of things to come
passed frequent and powerful across his soul, bright and living as
realities; and his language was that of one who constantly held strange
communication with scenes and beings not of this world. Though his foot
had never before trod the heath of Glen Feracht, he described, with the
most perfect accuracy, its castle, stream, and cave; saying that he was
come to lay his bones beside those of the ancient seers and holy men who
had inhabited Coir-nan-Taischatrin. This was enough to rouse the
curiosity of Macpherson. Pursuing his inquiries, he learned that the
seer had taken up his abode in the cave, and that he had already
foretold to some of the clan things, part of which were accomplished,
and the rest expected with the utmost confidence. In order to satisfy
his curiosity, Macpherson determined to visit the hoary seer, and learn
from himself the nature of his visions.
The shadows of the pine and oak were stretching far across the ravine in
the slant evening sunshine, when Ewan Macpherson appeared in front of
the cave. His eye could not penetrate the deep darkness within it; and,
yielding to a feeling of indescribable awe which crept over his soul, he
remained for some time silent and motionless before its entrance. At
length he ordered one of his gillies to acquaint the wondrous inmate
that Ewan Macpherson wished to hold some converse with him. Forward came
the venerable man; and his appearance, in the dimming twilight, had no
tendency to diminish the strange delirium of superstitious feelings
which had absorbed the whole mind of the bewildered chief. The sage bent
one searching glance upon his visitor; and, seeming to have penetrated
the state of his mind, advanced into more open view.
A long and squared rod seemed to support his shaking frame as he came
forward, tottering and halting at every step. The shaggy hide of an
enormous wolf, thrown loosely over his shoulders, served partly to
clothe him, partly to disguise his form by the air of savage wildness
which a garment so uncouth gave its wearer. From his belt depended some
instruments, with the use of which Macpherson was entirely unacquainted;
together with a _skean dhu_ of exquisite and uncommon workmanship. His
bonnet alone was like that of other men; for what could a true
highlander substitute for the blue bonnet? but he neither doffed it,
nor made any motions of obeisance as he approached. A long white beard
flowed half down his bosom, waving heavily and solemnly as he moved. The
fire of an intensely bright eye was half hid by his deep, grey, shaggy
eyebrows; yet, from beneath that grim penthouse, they emitted occasional
sparklings like diamonds in the dark.
"Chief of Macpherson!" said he, in a deep hollow voice, "man of the
dark brow and ruthless hand! what seekest thou with Moran of the Wild?"
But, ere Macpherson could reply, the sage cast the wolf hide back from
his right shoulder--extended the long square rod in his firmly clenched
hand--raised himself up to his full height, while his eyes seemed
starting from their sockets, and gleaming like two balls of living fire,
and his whole frame agitated, and as if it were dilating with the
internal workings of his wild visionary spirit. Macpherson shook and
shrunk in his presence.
"They come! they come!" exclaimed the seer--"the wild, the dreadful, the
undefinable, the unutterable, the shadowy forms and seemings of things
and actions to be! They crowd upon me in powers and numbers unendurable,
inconceivable! Words never formed by human breath sound within my heart,
and tell of things that mortal tongue may never utter. Eyes, clear,
cold, dead, bright, and chill as winter moonshine, look into my soul,
and fill it with all their lucid meanings! Oh, scene of blood and woe!
when wilt thou end? Thou bright-haired angel, must the doom be thine!
Fair lady of the stately brow! oh! let me see no more!" His lips
quivered, but he uttered not another word. He remained fixed, rigid,
statue-like, as if chilled into stone, bereft of life and motion, by the
terrible vision. At length his extended arm dropped by his side; and,
heaving a long, shuddering sigh, he leaned his drooping frame upon his
rod, trembling and exhausted.
After a considerable pause, Macpherson ventured to address him, with the
intention of inquiring into the nature of his vision. "Speak not to me,
Ewan Macpherson," said he. "Seek not to know the fate thou wilt and must
know all too soon. Thy path through life has been blood-stained and
devious. No warnings may now avail thee. But that lady--might she be
rescued from misery and horror! Chief! if the safety and happiness of
thy father's daughter be dear to thee, bid her assume the spirit of her
race, and come alone to Coir-nan-Taischatrin. Tell her that Moran of the
Wild has that to reveal to her which concerns her, and thee, too,
deeply. And mark me, Chief! unless thou ceasest to pursue the feuds of
thy fathers, thy course will be brief, and bloody will be its close."
Thus saying, he turned and feebly dragged his spent and tottering form
into the dark and awe-inspiring cave.
Stunned and bewildered, incapable of thought or reflection, and
staggering like one who walks in his sleep, Macpherson wandered back
towards Castle Feracht. With a strange expression of vague astonishment
and hesitation he gazed upon his sister. At length he found words:
"Elizabeth Macpherson, if the honour of thy name, if thy own safety
and happiness can move thee; if thy brother's life--but that is a
trifle--assume the spirit of thy fathers, and go alone to
Coir-nan-Taischatrin. Moran of the Wild has that to tell thee which
deeply concerns thy safety and happiness. Canst thou execute his desire?
He is a fearful man!" At his first words the blood forsook her cheek,
and her heart sank within her; but, ere he ceased speaking, a wild
surmise flashed gleaming across her soul.
"Brother!" replied she, "the daughter of Angus Macpherson dare go alone
to Coir-nan-Taischatrin, and hear whatever the sage may have to tell.
Fear not for me. Do not, by impatience or needless anxiety for my
safety, rashly interrupt our interview. Ere long, you shall know what
warnings or what information the seer has to impart." Then, with a
stately and determined step, and an eye kindled with an ambiguous
expression of ardent hope or daring resolution, she bent her way to
the dreaded cave.
The fearless maiden approached the cave. She spoke; but the voice that
answered was that of Allan Cameron. The wolf's hide was soon thrown
aside, and he stood before her in the graceful garb of a mountain
warrior; his noble countenance beaming with courage and triumphant
love. Taking advantage of the time which Macpherson would delay at the
castle, awaiting the expiration of their interview, they hastily fled
from the hostile glen, and soon reached a concealment where the faithful
cho-alt had horses prepared for their escape. Words would be feeble to
express the fury of Ewan Macpherson when, after waiting till his
patience was exhausted, he explored the cave, and found that he had been
deceived, and that by the man whom he had begun to consider as his
deadliest foe. He determined to take fearful vengeance upon Cameron, and
all of his clan whom he might be able to overpower. Before he could get
his purpose put in execution, he chanced to meet a small party of the
Gordons; when, forgetting every other thought but that of his burning
desire of vengeance on those who slew his father, he rushed upon them;
and, bursting into the midst of them, was assailed on all sides, and
wounded so severely that, though he was rescued by his own followers,
and was completely victorious, he died ere he could be brought back to
Castle Feracht. Dying unmarried, his estate and power passed to his
sister, and from her to one of her younger sons, upon his dropping the
name of Cameron, and retaining that of Macpherson alone. An amicable
termination was thus put to the feud between the two families. A
descendant from this auspicious union still resides in Castle Feracht,
and occasionally relates, with considerable pleasure, the tradition of
Coir-nan-Taischatrin.
THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH.
A TALE OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS.
"Word went east, and word went west,
And word is gone over the sea,
That a Laidley Worm in Spindleston Heugh
Would ruin the north countrie.
"All folks believe within the shire
This story to be true,
And they all run to Spindleston
The cave and trough to view.
"This fact now Duncan Frazier,
Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme,
Lest Bamboroughshire-men should forget
Some part of it in time."--_Ancient Ballad._[J]
[J] The popular Ballad of the Laidley (or loathly) Worm of
Spindleston Heugh, was composed by Duncan Frazier, the Cheviot bard,
more than five hundred years ago, and had rendered the legend familiar
far beyond the Borders. The tradition has doubtless been commemorated by
the ancient Saxon bards, when old Duncan turned it into rhyme; and it is
under this supposition that the present tale is told, the narrator being
understood to be a wandering bard of the Saxon race.
"Tell me, old man," said a Northumbrian chief to a Saxon bard who
claimed his hospitality, "tell me a tale of the olden time--a legend of
the race of Woden."
The bard bowed his head and began:--Great was Ida, the flame-bearer,
above all the kings of the isles. His ships covered the sea in shoals,
and his warriors that launched them on the deep were stronger than its
waves. He built the towers of Bamborough on the mighty rock whose shadow
darkens the waters. He reared it as a habitation for his queen, and he
called it by her name.[K] Wheresoever he went, strong places were
consumed, kings were overthrown and became his servants, and nations
became one. But Ida, in the midst of his conquests, fell in battle, by
the red sword of Owen, the avenging Briton. Then followed six kings who
reigned over Bernicia, from the southern Tyne even to the Frith of Dun
Edin. But the duration of their sovereignty was as a summer cloud or
morning dew. Their reigns were as six spans from an infant's hand, and
peaceful as an infant's slumber.
[K] According to the venerable Bede, the name of Ida's queen
was Bidda, and the original name of Bamborough, Biddaburgh.
But to them succeeded Ethelfrith the Fierce--the grandson of Ida--the
descendant of the immortal Woden. His voice, when his ire was kindled,
was like the sound of deep thunder, and his vengeance fleeter than the
lightning. He overthrew princes as reeds, and he swept armies before him
as stubble. His conquests extended from where clouds sleep on the brow
of Cheviot, to where the heights of terrific Snowdon pierce heaven. Men
trembled at his name; for he was as a wolf in the fold, as an eagle
among the lesser birds of heaven.
Now, the wife of Ethelfrith's bosom died; she departed to the place of
spirits--to the company of her fathers. She left behind her a daughter,
Agitha,[L] with the tresses of the raven's wing; and she was beautiful
as sunbeams sparkling from morning dew amongst the flowers of spring.
Her eyes were bright as the falcon's, but with their brightness was
mingled the meekness of the dove's. The breath of sixteen summers had
fanned her cheeks. Her bosom was white as the snow that lay in winter on
the hills, and soft as the plumage of the sea-fowl that soared over the
rocks of her lofty dwelling.
[L] In the old ballad she is called Margaret.
A hundred princes sighed for the hand of the bright-haired Agitha; but
their tales of love had no music for her ear, and they jarred upon her
soul as the sounds of a broken instrument. She bent her ear only to
listen to the song of affection from the lips of the Chylde Wynde--even
to Chylde Wynde of the sharp sword and the unerring bow, who was her own
kinsman, the son of her father's brother. His voice was to her as the
music of water brooks to the weary and fainting traveller--dear as the
shout of triumph to a conquering king. Great was the Chylde Wynde among
the heroes of Bernicia. He had honoured the shield of his father. He had
rendered his sword terrible. Where the battle raged fiercest, there was
his voice heard, there was his sword seen; war-horses and their riders
fell before it--it arrested the fury of the chariots of war. Bards
recorded his deeds in immortal strains, and Agitha sang them in secret.
Yet would not Ethelfrith listen to the prayer of his kinsman, but his
anger was kindled against him. The fierce king loved his daughter, but
he loved dominion more. It was dearer to him than the light of heaven,
than the face of the blessed sun. He waded through blood as water, even
the blood of his victims, to set his feet upon thrones. He said unto
himself--"Agitha is beautiful--she is fairer than her mother was. She is
stately as a pine, lifting its head above the sacred oaks. She is lovely
as the moon when it blesseth the harvest fields. A king only shall
possess her hand, and give a kingdom in exchange for it."
Thus spoke her father, the mighty Ethelfrith, whose word was power,
and whose purpose was fixed as the everlasting rocks on which the
foundations of the earth are built. He said, therefore, unto the Chylde
Wynde--"Strong art thou in battle, son of my brother; the mighty bend
before thy spear, and thy javelins pierce through the shields of our
enemies. As an eagle descendeth on its prey, so rusheth my kinsman to
the onset. But thou hast no nation to serve thee--no throne to offer
for my daughter's hand. Whoso calleth himself her husband, shall for
that title exchange the name of king, and become tributary unto me--even
as my sword, before which thrones shake and nations tremble, has caused
others to do homage. Go, therefore, son of my brother, take with thee
ships and warriors, and seek thee a people to conquer. Go, find a land
to possess; and when with thy sword and with thy bow thou hast done
this, return ye to me, bringing a crown in thy left hand, and in thy
right will I place the hand of Agitha with the bright hair, whose eyes
are as stars."
"O king!" answered the Chylde--"thou who holdest the fate of princes
in thy hands, and the shadow of whose sceptre stretcheth over many
nations--the uplifting of whose arm turneth the tide of battle--swear
unto me, by the spirit of mighty Woden, that while I am doing that which
thou requirest, and ere I can return to lay a crown at thy feet, swear
that thou will not bless another king, for an offered kingdom, with the
hand of Agitha, in whom my soul liveth!"
Then did the wrath of the king wax terrible; his eyes were as consuming
fires, even as the fire of heaven when it darteth from the dark clouds
of midnight. His countenance was fierce as the sea, when its waves boil
and are lifted up with the tempest. In his wrath he dashed his heel upon
the floor; and the armour of conquered kings, the spoils of a hundred
battles, rang round the halls of Ida.
"Shall the blood of my brother," he cried "stain the floor of his
father? Boy! ask ye an oath from a king, the descendant of Woden?[M]
Away! do as I command thee, lest ye perish!"
[M] It may be necessary to mention, that the imaginary deities
of the Saxons were named Woden, Tuisco, Thor, Frea, and Seator. They
also worshipped the sun and moon. Woden was their god of war; and from
him Ida and his descendants professed to spring. We need hardly add that
it is after these objects of pagan worship that we still name the days
of the week; as Woden's day (Wednesday), Thor's day (Thursday), Frea's
day (Friday), &c. &c.
Then did the Chylde Wynde withdraw from before the anger of the great
king, in the presence of whom, in his wrath, the life even of his
kindred was as a spider's thread. He sought Agitha with the rainbow
smile, where she sat with her maidens, in the groves of Budle,
ornamenting a robe of skins for her father, the mighty Ethelfrith. The
sea sang its anthem of power along the shore, and the caves of the rocks
resounded with the chorus of the eternal hymn. The farthest branches of
the grove bent over the cliff that overhung the sounding sea. The birds
of heaven sang over her head, and before her the sea-birds wheeled in
myriads, countless as the sand upon the shore, like burnished clouds
over the adjacent isles. Their bright wings flashed in the sun, like the
fitful fires that light the northern heavens.
The warrior Chylde drew near where the princess sat. There was gloom and
sorrow on his brow. The echoes of the grove answered to his sighs.
Agitha heard them. She beheld the cloud of anguish that was before his
countenance. The robe of skins dropped from her hand. Her eyes, that
were as the morning light, became dim. She arose and went forward to
meet him.
"Wherefore," she inquired, "does my hero sigh, and why sits heaviness on
the brightness of his face? Art not thou renowned in song as the warrior
of the dauntless heart and the resistless sword? Art not thou the envy
of princes--the beloved of the people--the admired by the daughters of
kings? And can sadness dwell upon thy soul? Oh! thou who art as the
plume of my father's warriors, and as the pride of his host, if grief
hath entered into thy bosom, let it be buried in mine."
Then thus replied the warrior Chylde:--"Agitha--thou that art fairer,
milder than the light that plays around the brows of the summer moon,
and dearer to me than a mother's milk to the lips of her babe--it is for
thee that my countenance is sad, and my soul troubled. For thy father
has pierced my spirit with many arrows; yea, even with the poisoned
arrows of a deadly foe. He hath wrung my soul for thee, Agitha. Thou
didst give me thy heart when the sacred moon rose over the rocky Ferns
and beheld us; and while the ministering spirits that dwell in its beams
descended as a shower of burning gold upon the sea, and, stretching to
the shore, heard us. We exchanged our vows beneath the light of the
hallowed orb, while the stars of heaven hid their faces before it. Then,
Agitha, while its beams glowed on my father's sword, upon that sword I
swore to love thee. But our vows are vain. Daughter of kings! our love
is sorrow. Thy father hath vowed, by the mighty Woden, that thou shalt
be the wife of a king, and that a kingdom shall be the price of thy
hand. Yet will I gather my warriors together. They number a thousand
spears; they have a thousand bows. The charge of their spears is as the
rushing of the whirlwind. The flight of their arrows hides the face of
the sun. Foes perish at their approach. Victory goeth before their face.
Therefore will I go forth into a far country. I will make war upon a
strange people, that I may take the kingdom from their ruler, and
present his crown unto thy father for the hand of my Agitha."
The maiden wept. Her head sank on her bosom like a fair flower weighed
down with dew. Tears stood in the eyes of the warrior.