KINTYRE AND CAMPBELTOWN.
In my wanderings in the latter town I pick up the last edition of a
useful and unpretending volume called "The History of Kintyre," by Mr.
Peter M'Intosh--a useful citizen who carried on the profession of a
catechist, and who is now no more. The book has merits of its own, as it
shows how much may be done by any ordinary man of average ability who
writes of what he has seen and heard. Kintyre is a peninsula on the
extreme south of the shire of Argyle, in length about forty geographical
miles. That the Fingalians occasionally resided at Kintyre is without
doubt, and a description of their bravery and generosity is graphically
given in some of the poems of Ossian. At one time there was much wood in
its lowlands, and in them were elk, deer, wild boars, &c., and the rivers
abounded with fish. There were clans who gathered together with the
greatest enthusiasm around their chiefs, who repaired to a high hill, and
set up a large fire on the top of it, in full view of the surrounding
district, each unfolding his banner, ensign, or pennant, his pipers
playing appropriate tunes. The clan got into motion, repaired to their
chief like mountain streams rushing into the ocean. He eloquently
addressed them in the heart-stirring language of the Gael, and, somewhat
like a Kaffir chief of the present day, dwelt at length on the heroism of
his ancestors. The will of the chief instantly became law, and
preparations were soon made; the chief in his uniform of clan tartan
takes the lead, the pipers play well-known airs, and the men follow,
their swords and spears glittering in the air.
Up to very recent times there were those who remembered this state of
things. An old man who died not a century ago told my informant, writes
Mr. M'Intosh, that the first thing he ever recollected was a great
struggle between his father and his mother in consequence of the father
preparing to join his clan in a bloody expedition. The poor wife exerted
all her strength, moral and physical, but in vain. He left her never to
return alive from the battlefield. The proprietors of Kintyre were wise
in their generation, and mustered men in their different districts to
oppose Prince Charles, partly on account of his religion, and partly to
retain their lands. On one occasion they marched to Falkirk, but not in
time to join in the battle, it being over before they reached there.
Prince Charles being victorious, they went into a church, which the
Highlanders surrounded, coming in with their clothes dyed with blood, and
crying out "Massacre them"; but they were set at liberty on the ground
that their hearts were with the Prince, and had been compelled by their
chiefs to take arms on the side of the House of Hanover against their
will. But even the chiefs were not always masters, and men often did
that which was right in their own eyes alone. An instance of this kind
is traditionally told about the Black Fisherman of Lochsanish. The loch,
which is now drained, was a mile in length and half-a-mile in breadth,
and contained a great number of salmon and trout. The Black Fisherman
would not suffer any person to live in the neighbourhood, but claimed, by
the strength of his arm, sole dominion over the loch. The Chief Largie,
who lived eighteen miles north of the loch, kept a guard of soldiers,
lest the Fisherman should make an attack on him. He sent his soldiers
daily to Balergie Cruach to see if the Fisherman was on the loch fishing,
and if they saw him fishing they would come home, not being afraid of an
attack on that day. A stranger one day coming to Largie's house asked
him why he kept soldiers. The answer was, it was on account of the
Fisherman. When he saw him sitting he went and fought the Fisherman,
bidding the soldiers wait the result on a neighbouring hill. When the
battle was over, the Fisherman was minus his head. We read the head,
which was very heavy, was left at Largie's door. These old men were
always fighting. The number of large stones we see erected in different
parts of Kintyre have been set up in memory of battles once fought at
these places. On one occasion two friendly clans prepared to come and
meet. They met somewhere north of Tarbert, but did not know each other,
and began to ask their names, which in those days it was considered
cowardice to answer. They drew swords, fought fiercely, and killed many
on both sides. At last they found out their mistake, were very, very
sorry, and, after burying their dead, returned to their respective
places. The feuds and broils among the clans were frequent, and really
for the most trifling causes, as the whole clans always stood by their
chiefs, and were ready at a moment's notice to fight on account of any
insult, real or imaginary. It appears that in this distant part of the
Empire, though the whole district is not far from Glasgow, with its
commerce and manufactures, and university and newspapers, and the modern
Athens, with its great literary traditions, there still linger many old
Druid superstitions.
Some are particularly interesting. Old M'Intosh thus writes of May-day
and the first of November, called in Gaelic Bealtuinn, or Beil-teine,
signifying Belus fire, and Samhuinn, or serene time.
On the first of May the Druids kindled a large fire on the top of a
mountain, from which a good view of the horizon might be seen, that they
might see the sun rising; the inhabitants of the whole country
assembling, after extinguishing their fire, in order to welcome the
rising sun and to worship God. The chief Druid, blessing the people and
receiving their offerings, gave a kindling to each householder. If the
Druid was displeased at any of the people, he would not give him a
kindling; and no other person was allowed to give it, on pain of being
cursed, and being unfortunate all the year round. This superstition is
observed by some to this day. On the first of November the Druids went
nearly through the same ceremony.
The superstition of wakes in Kintyre is nearly worn out. The origin of
this superstition is, that when one died the Druid took charge of his
soul, conveying it to Flath-innis, or heaven; but the friends of the
deceased were to watch, or wake, the body, lest the evil spirits should
take it away, and leave some other substance in its place. When
interred, it could never be removed.
An old man named John M'Taggart, who died long ago, was owner of a fine
little smack, with which he trafficked from Kintyre to Ireland and other
places. Being anxious to get a fair wind to go to Ireland, and hearing
of an old woman who pretended to have the power to give this, he made a
bargain with her. She gave him two strings with three knots on each;
when he undid the first, he got a fine fair breeze; getting into
mid-channel he opened the second, and got a strong gale; and when near
the Irish shore he wished to see the effect of the third knot, which,
when he loosed, a great hurricane blew, which destroyed some of the
houses on shore. With the other string he came back to Kintyre, only
opening two of the knots. The old man believed in this superstition.
On the island of Gigha is a well with some stones in it, and it is said
that if the stones be taken out of it a great storm will arise. Two or
three old men told M'Intosh that they opened the well, and that a fearful
storm arose, and they would swear to it if pressed to confirm their
belief; they would affirm also to the existence of the Brunie in Cara.
In Carradale is a hill called Sroin-na-h-eana-chair, in which it is said
an old creature resides from generation to generation, who makes a great
noise before the death of individuals of a certain clan. An old man with
whom M'Intosh conversed on the subject declared that he had heard the
cries himself, which made the whole glen tremble.
A little dwarf, called the "Caointeach," or weeper, is said to weep
before the death of some persons. Some people thought this supernatural
creature very friendly. An old wife affirmed that she saw the little
creature, about the size of a new-born infant, weep with the voice of a
young child, and shortly afterwards got notice of the death of a friend.
Others affirmed that they heard the trampling of people outside of the
house at night, and shortly after a funeral left the house. Many stories
are told about apparitions in the hearing of the young, making an
impression which continues all their days. Peter the Catechist
deprecates such conduct. He writes: "I have seen those who would not
turn on their heel to save their life on the battle-field, who would
tremble at the thought of passing alone a place said to be frequented by
a spirit."
Very provokingly he next observes, "It would be ridiculous to speak of
the charms, omens, gestures, dreams, &c." Now, the fact is, it is just
these things which are matters of interest to an inquiring mind. They
are absurdities to us, but they were not so once; and then comes the
question, Why? He does, however, add a little to our fund of information
relative to the second sight.
"An old man who lived at Crossibeg, four generations ago, saw visions,
which were explained to him by a supernatural being, descriptive of
future events in Kintyre. An account of them was printed, and entitled
'Porter's Prophecies,' which I have perused, but cannot tell if any of
them have come to pass as yet, but some people believed them.
"The Laird of Caraskie, more than a century ago, is said to have had a
familiar spirit called Beag-bheul, or little mouth, which talked to him,
and took great care of him and his property. The spirit told him of a
great battle which would be fought in Kintyre, and that the magpie would
drink human blood from off a standing stone erected near Campbeltown.
The stone was removed, and set as a bridge over the mill water, over
which I have often traversed; but the battle has not been fought as yet,
and perhaps never will be.
"The Rev. Mr. Boes, a minister of Campbeltown, more than a century ago,
was said to have the second sight. One time being at the Assembly, and
coming home on Saturday to preach to his congregation, he was overtaken
by a storm, which drove the packet into Rothesay. He went to preach in
the church on the Sabbath. The rafters of the church above not being
lathed, in the middle of his sermon he looked up, and with a loud voice
cried, 'Ye're there, Satan; ye kept me from preaching to my own
congregation, but ye cannot keep me from preaching for all that,' and
then went on with his sermon. At another time, his congregation having
assembled on the Sabbath as usual, the minister was walking rapidly on
the grass after the time of meeting, the elders not being willing to
disturb him by telling him the time was expired. At last he clapped his
hands, exclaiming, 'Well done, John;' the Duke of Argyle being at that
moment at the head of the British army in Flanders fighting a battle in
which he was victorious. The minister, by the power of the second sight,
witnessed the battle, and exclaimed, when he saw it won, 'Well done,
John.' He went afterwards and preached to his congregation.
"Another Sabbath, when preaching, a member of the congregation having
fallen asleep, he cried to him 'Awake.' In a short time the man fell
asleep again. The minister bade him awake again and hear the sermon.
The man fell asleep the third time, when the minister cried, with a loud
voice, 'Awake, and hear this sermon, for it will be the last you will
ever hear in this life.' Before the next Sabbath the man was dead. On
the morning of a Communion Sabbath, Mr. Boes got up very early, convinced
that something was wrong about the church. He examined it, and found
that the beams of the gallery were almost sawn through by the emissaries
of Satan, in order that the congregation, by the falling of the gallery,
might be killed. He got carpenters and smiths employed till they put the
church in a safe state, and proceeded with the solemn service of the day
with great earnestness. Mr. Boes was sometimes severely tried with
temptations, having imaginary combats with Satan, and, being very
ill-natured, he would not allow any person to come near him. On one of
these occasions he shut himself up in his room for three days. His wife
being afraid he would starve with hunger, sent the servant-man with food
to him, but the minister scattered it on the floor. The servant-man
exclaimed, 'The devil's in the man!' In a moment the minister, becoming
calm, answered, 'You are quite right,' then partook of the food, and
returned to his former habits."
The following is a good illustration of an olden chief:--We have many
traditional stories about Saddell Castle, in which Mr. M'Donald or "Righ
Fionghal" resided. He claimed despotic power over the inhabitants of
Kintyre. It is said he knew the use of gunpowder, and often made a bad
use of it. He would for sport shoot people, though they did him no harm,
with his long gun, which was kept in Carradale for a long time after his
death. His character is represented as being very tyrannical. Being
once in Ireland, he saw a beautiful married woman, whom he fancied, and
took away from her husband to Saddell. Her husband followed; but
M'Donald finding him, intended to have starved him to death without his
wife knowing it. He was put in a barn, but he kept himself alive by
eating the corn which he found there. M'Donald removed him to another
place, but a hen came in every day and kept him alive with her eggs.
M'Donald was anxious that the poor man should die, and placed him in
another place, where he got nothing to eat, and it is said the miserable
prisoner ate his own hand, then his arm to the elbow, before he died, and
said, in Gaelic, "Dh'ith mi mo choig meoir a's mo lamh gu'm uilleann. Is
mor a thig air neach nach eiginu fhulang." When they were burying him,
his wife was on the top of the castle, and asked whose funeral it was;
she was told it was Thomson's. "Is it my Thomson?" she inquired. "Yes,"
they replied. She then said they might stop for a little till she would
be with them. She immediately threw herself over the castle wall, and
was carried dead with her husband to the same grave.
Perhaps, after all, Saxon rule has not been such an injury to the Western
Isles of Scotland as some people think. At Kintyre there are plenty of
schools, and parsons and policemen instead of robber chiefs; and if there
are few freebooting expeditions to Ireland and elsewhere, it is quite as
well that people have taken to a more decent mode of life.
Alas! my "to-morrow"--unlike that of the poet, which "never comes"--is at
hand. Under a smiling sky, and on a summer sea, we thread our way past
Arran, or the Land of Sharp Pinnacles, down the Kyles of Bute, where the
scenery is of exquisite beauty; past Rothesay, the Hastings of the West,
and with an aquarium said to be the finest in the world, and almost as
flourishing as that Hastings of the South which rejoices in a yatchsman
for M.P. of unrivalled fame; past Dunoon, till we drop anchor at Hunters'
Quay. We seem all at once to have come into the world again. On every
side of us there are steamers bearing tourists, and holiday-makers, and
health-seekers to the crowded bathing-places and health resorts. As we
approach our journey's end, the Clyde seems covered with rowing-boats,
and music and laughter echo along its waters. I feel a little sad to
think that my brief holiday is over. The Doctor and the Doctor's lady
tell me we shall meet in London, and that is a consolation. Yes, we
shall meet, but no more as equals on deck. He will be in the pulpit or
on the platform, I beneath. There is no equality when a man puts on the
black gown, and begins lecturing to the pew. The mutual standpoint
vanishes like a dream. But when, oh, when shall I sail in such a model
yacht as the _Elena_ again, or meet with such hospitality as I enjoyed at
its worthy owner's hands? His sons, amphibious as are all the Scotchmen,
apparently, in these parts, row out to meet us. The greeting is as
affectionate as mostly the greetings of the British race are. "What did
you come back for? We were getting on very well without you," were the
first words I heard.