The barometer has fallen somewhat since last night, and there are
ominous clouds looming here and there in the west; but the sky remains
clear blue overhead, the white road is dry and dazzling, and the sun
as hot as could be wished. Out to the eastward the way turns along the
top of the quaint fisher town, with its narrow lanes and throng of low
thatched roofs, till at a sudden dip the little bridge crosses the
river. Sweet Nairn! The river has given its name to the town. A hundred
and forty years have passed since these clear waters, wimpling now in
the sun, brought down from the western moors the life-blood of many a
wounded Highlander fallen on dark Culloden. The sunny waters keep a
memory still of the flight of the last Prince Charles.
Like a crow-flight eastward the road runs straight, having on the left,
beyond the rabbit warren, the silver sand-beach and the sea, and on
the right the fertile farm-lands and the farther woods. The white line
glistening on the horizon far along the coast to the east, is a glimpse
of the treacherous hillocks of the Culbin shifting sands. They are
shining now like silver in the calm forenoon; but, as if restless under
an eternal ban, they keep for ever moving, and, when stirred by the
strong sea-wind, they are wont yet to rise and rush and overwhelm, like
the dust-storm of the Sahara. For two hundred years a goodly mansion
and a broad estate have lain buried beneath those wastes, and what was
once called the Garden of Moray is nothing now but a desolate sea of
sand. They say that a few years ago an apple-tree of the ancient manor
orchard was laid bare for some months by a drift, that it blossomed and
bore fruit, and again mysteriously disappeared. Curious visitors, too,
can still see, in the open spaces where the black earth of the ancient
fields is exposed, the regular ridges and furrows as they were left
by the flying farmers; and the ruts of cart-wheels two hundred years
old are yet to be traced in the long-hidden soil. Flint arrowheads,
bronze pins and ornaments, iron fish-hooks and spear-points, as well
as numerous nails, and sometimes an ancient coin, are to be picked
up about the mouldered sites of long-buried villages; but the mansion
of Kinnaird, the only stone house on the estate, lies yet beneath a
mighty sandhill, as it was hidden by the historic storm which in three
days overwhelmed nineteen farms, altered by five miles the course of
a river, and blotted out a prosperous country-side. Pray Heaven that
yonder terrible white line by the sea may not rise again some night on
its tempest wings to carry that ruin farther!
Over the firth, looking backward as the highway at lasts bends inland,
the red cliffs of Cromarty show their long line in the sun, and, with
the yellow harvest-fields above them, hardly fulfil sufficiently the
ancient name of the “Black Isle.” Not a sail is to be seen on the open
firth, only the far-stretching waters, under the sunny sky, bicker with
the “many-twinkling smile of ocean.” Here, though, two miles out of
Nairn, where the many-ricked farmhouses lie snug among their new-shorn
fields, the road rises into the trim village of Auldearn.
Neat as possible are the little gardens before the cottages, bright
yet with late autumn flowers. Yellow marigolds glisten within the low
fences beside dark velvety calceolarias and creamy stocks; while the
crimson flowers of tropeolum cover the cottage walls up to the thatch,
and some pale monthly roses still bloom about the windows. A peaceful
spot it is to-day, yet a spot with a past and a grim tale of a hundred
years before Culloden. Here it was that in 1645 Montrose, fighting
gallantly for the First Charles, drove back into utter rout the army of
the covenanting Parliament. On the left, among sheepfolds and dry-dyke
inclosures, lay his right wing with the royal standard; nearer, to the
right, with their backs to the hill, stood the rest of his array with
the cavalry; and here in the village street, between the two wings,
his few guns deceived the enemy with a show of force. It was from the
church tower, up there in front, that Montrose surveyed the position;
and below, in the little churchyard and church itself, lie many of
those who fell in the battle. They are all at peace now, the eastern
Marquis and the western, Montrose and Argyle: long ago they fought out
their last great feud, and departed.
The country about has always been a famous place for witches, and
doubtless the three who fired Macbeth with his fatal ambition belonged
to Auldearn. Three miles beyond the village the road runs across the
Hardmuir, and there it was that the awful meeting took place. The moor
is planted now with pines, and the railway runs at less than a mile’s
distance; but even when the road is flooded with sunshine, there hangs
a gloom among the trees, and a strange feeling of eeriness comes upon
the intruder in the solitude. On the left a gate opens into the wood,
and the witches’ hillock lies at some distance out of sight.
Utterly silent the place is! Not a breath of air is moving, and the
atmosphere has become close and sultry. There is no path, for few
people follow their curiosity so far. Dry ditches and stumps of old
trees make the walking difficult; withered branches of pine crackle
suddenly sometimes under tread; and here and there the fleshy finger of
a fungus catches the eye at a tree root.
And here rises the hillock. On its bald and blasted summit, in the
lurid corpse-light, according to the old story,
The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about,
when Macbeth, approaching the spot with Banquo, after victory in the
west over Macdonald of the Isles, exclaims:
So foul and fair a day I have not seen!
and the hags, suddenly confronting the general, greet him with the
triple hail of Glamis, Cawdor, and King.
The blasted hillock was indeed a fit spot for such a scene. Not a blade
of grass grows upon it; the withered needles and cones of the pines lie
about, wan and lifeless and yellow; and on one side, where the witches
emptied their horrid caldron, and the contents ran down the slope, the
earth remains bare, and scorched, and black. Even the trees themselves
which grow on the hillock appear of a different sort from those on the
heath around.
Antiquaries set the scene of fulfilment of the witches infernal
promptings--Macbeth’s murder of King Duncan--variously at Inverness,
Glamis, and Bothgofuane, a smithy near Forres. Popular tradition,
however, points to Cawdor, and less than seven miles from the fatal
heath the Thane’s great moated keep frowns yet among its woods.
But what is this? The air has grown suddenly dark; the gloom becomes
oppressive; and in the close heat it is almost possible to imagine
a smell of sulphur. A flash of lightning, a rush of wind among the
tree-tops, and a terrible crash of thunder just overhead! A moment’s
silence, a sound as if all the pines were shaking their branches
together, a deluging downpour of rain, and the storm has burst. The
spirits of the air are abroad, and the evil genius of the place is
awake in demoniac fury. The tempest waxes terrific. The awful gloom
among the trees is lit up by flash after flash of lightning; the cannon
of thunder burst in all directions; and the rain pours in torrents. The
ghastly hags might well revisit the scene of their orgies at such a
moment.
[Illustration]
It is enough. The powers of the air have conquered. It is hardly safe,
and by no means pleasant, to remain among the pines in such a storm. So
farewell to the deserted spot, and a bee-line for the open country. To
make up for the wetting, it is consoling to think that few enthusiasts
have beheld so realistic a representation of the third scene of
Macbeth.