in olden times. An eye-witness has given the following account of
it:—“When I entered the house, the tide of enjoyment was rolling on in
full career. I listened and thought I heard an unusual noise in the
apartment immediately above. The noise, however, was by no means of an
alarming kind. It appeared to be the obstreperous romping of a parcel of
youngsters. I found that the ladies of the house had brought together a
number of young friends to burn nuts and duck for apples. I ascertained
that previous to my appearance, they had already gone through the greater
part of the ceremonies of the evening. They had pulled stocks, burnt
nuts, and were now collected with earnest and somewhat awe-stricken
faces, round a table on which stood two or three wine-glasses full
of pure water. They were, in fact, about to commence the ceremony of
dropping the egg—a ceremony which is performed by puncturing a fresh egg
with a pin, when the person whose destiny is to be read holds it over a
glass of pure water, into which he allows a few drops from the egg to
fall. The glass is then held up to the candle, and some important event
in the future life of the inquirer is found exhibited hieroglyphically
in the glass,—the egg droppings assuming an endless variety of shapes,
in which the skilful in these matters discover a resemblance to things,
which, by association, clearly point out coming circumstances and
events. All this was done by an old, weird sybil, who had been invited
for the special purpose of reading to the young folks the various signs
and indications of this privileged right. We all tried our fortunes
after the most approved manner of egg-dropping, by the direction of the
withered sybil already alluded to, and who, indeed, looked the very
‘beau ideal’ of a witch, or fortune-teller of coming events. She was
old, shrivelled, and haggard—had a shrill, sharp voice, and was withal
marvellously loquacious. She seemed to be deeply in earnest, and to be
strongly impressed with the solemnities which were going forward, and was
more than once highly displeased with what she considered our irreverence
for these matters, and the unbecoming and ill-timed levity with which
we heard each other’s fortunes foretold. We had all now tried our luck,
with various results, but there was one young gentleman, who, I thought,
seemed rather disinclined to go through the ceremony—and indeed, he
finally endeavoured to back out altogether by a forced joke. We all urged
him on, however, and at length fairly drove him to the experiment. ‘Come
awa, come awa, my bonny man,—excuse me for speaking that way, but ye ken
I’ve kent ye sin ye was a bairn, and hae dandled ye mony a time on my
knee. Come awa, and lat’s see what luck is to be yours. I’m sure it’ll be
gowd in goppins, and true love to brook it—a bonnie lady wi’ a bonnier
tocher.’ Whilst the old woman was speaking, the youth, having advanced
close to the table, was in the act of dropping, with rather an unsteady
hand, the egg into the glass. This done: ‘Here Janet,’ he said, with an
affected laugh, and at the same time handing the glass to her across the
table—‘Now, give me all the good things of this life, let not one be
awanting on your peril.’ Well, all awaited in silence the announcement of
our friend’s future fortune, as we felt a degree of interest, nay of awe,
stealing in upon us, which gradually allayed the light spirit with which
we had entered the apartment. The old woman had now gently raised the
glass between her eye and the candle, and having peered through it for a
second—‘Eh! gude guide us, Sirs,’ she exclaimed, ‘Gude guide us, what’s
this we hae here; but it canna be, it canna be, let me see,’ and she
looked with an increased intensity at the fatal signs. ‘Ay! ay!’ she said
again, ‘it’s but owre true, my bairn, my bairn,’ she added, and laying
down the glass on the table. ‘Are ye sure it was your glass ye gae me?’
‘Sure enough, Janet, sure enough, what’s all this fuss about?’ ‘What is
it, Janet, what is’t, what is’t?’ now burst from both old and young, all
being wound up to a pitch of the most intense interest to know what was
that fate which Janet’s expressions so particularly and fearfully hinted
at. ‘I insist on knowing,’ said the young gentleman, striking his hand
on the table with a sort of good-natured energy, for he affected to be
laughing at the time. ‘I insist upon it,’ he said, ‘for the edification
of all present. Come then, Janet, any thing you like short of premature
death and ruin, and crossed love.’ ‘But it’s short o’ neither, my bairn!
Alas! it’s short o’ neither,’ said the old woman gravely and seriously.
‘It’s indeed short o’ neither—there’s a winding sheet there wi’ a fearful
rent in it, and that ye ken, betokens a violent death; there’s a’—here,
perceiving that things were getting rather serious, I suddenly burst in
with an affected shout of hilarity, overturned the glass, talked loudly
and obstreperously, and insisted upon our adjourning to the apartment we
had left. So, with a wild, but assumed glee, we hurriedly descended to
the room below.
“We endeavoured to enjoy ourselves, but still a weight seemed to have
been laid upon the spirits of us all, which nothing could remove. We all
felt the absurdity of permitting such a frivolous circumstance as the
egg-dropping to depress us, but we could not hide from ourselves the fact
that it had depressed us, and more particularly so, as our excellent
host—a kind-hearted youth of twenty-three—had evidently taken the sybil’s
vaticinations too severely to heart. Under this feeling, and after our
kind host had made such ineffectual attempts to restore the gaiety of the
evening, the party broke up, each went his own way, and I retired to bed.
‘Confound that old hag,’ said my friend, just as I was about to part with
him for the night; ‘confound her, she has spoiled our evening’s enjoyment
with her nonsense. Wasn’t it evident,’ he said, ‘that our friends were
damped by the fooleries up-stairs?’ I said, avoiding a direct answer,
‘that we had spent a very pleasant night, and if there was any feeling
of the kind he alluded to, a night’s sleep would entirely remove it.’
I met my friend and his aunts next morning at breakfast, where he more
than once alluded to the circumstance during our meal; and indeed
fairly allowed that, in despite of the contempt with which he viewed
such things, he could not help the idea of the rent winding-sheet still
retaining its hold on his imagination.
“It will serve no purpose to relate the history of this unfortunate
youth. The impression of the old hag’s prediction never left him, but
increased in intensity as some years passed on. He became addicted to
intemperate habits, and utterly heedless of his worldly affairs. He
squandered his patrimonial estate, and ruined his aged aunts, who lived
with him. Ultimately, he wandered in beggary to a neighbouring city, and
frequented the lowest haunts of dissipation, where he was found by a
friend, who had gone in search of him, but found exactly an hour after
he had swallowed a vial of laudanum. He opened his eyes, and knew his
friend, who had just procured a surgeon; but all in vain. His last words
were—‘Oh! the winding sheet; the rent winding-sheet!’ and in less than
two hours, he gently expired.”
There are instances of the minds of some having been unhinged through the
influence of undue credulity in certain practices of this nature. It has
frequently happened besides, that personal injury has been inflicted,
unintentionally no doubt, by the frolics and fooleries of that evening.
The throwing of cabbage runts and large round turnips down the “lums,”
or chimneys of the cottars’ dwellings, have often struck violently
upon the family group around the cosy ingle, and inflicted serious
injuries. The ceremony of throwing the clue of blue yarn into the pit
of the kiln is one that has been attended with unhappy results. Kilns
for drying corn are generally erected in lonely places, apart from the
other dwellings, owing to their liability to catch fire. On the other
hand, the kiln-logies or pits, are dreary, dark, deep receptacles, of
circular form, narrow below and wide above, like hollow cones inverted.
During the romping frivolities of the domestic circle in performing as
many of the games as they can, lots are cast as to the maiden who must
resort to the kiln at the dark hour of midnight, with her clue of blue
thread in her hand, to meet with her sweetheart, or to hear his name. The
selected “lass” must go, and go alone, however dark and stormy the night.
It requires no small fortitude to enter the damp, dark kiln, to climb
to the upper ridge of the kiln-logie, and to sit in that weird position
in utter darkness. By this time, however, a number of the young men,
unknown to the girl, had resorted to the kiln, and concealed themselves
in and around the place. The girl, with palpitating heart cast her clue
in to the kiln-logie, retaining the end of the thread in her hand, and
exclaiming, with tremulous voice, “Co e sud th’air ceann mo ròpain?” (Who
is there at the end of my rope or thread?) Some of the youths, hidden in
the kiln, would enter the aperture or fire-place below, lay hold of the
clue in the pit, and cry with a feigned-unnatural voice, “I am here, what
want ye with me?” “Who art thou, and what thy name, bold swain?” The
replies to this query were various. Some said that they were the girl’s
sweetheart, others, that they were wizards or beings of the supernatural
order. Some even wickedly feigned to be the prince of darkness, when the
preconcerted shrieking and howling of the hidden fellows so terrified the
trembling young female above, as to render her a helpless maniac for life.
SACRED WELLS AND LOCHS.—The veneration that has been paid for ages to
“Sacred Wells,” and the confidence placed in their charms all over the
kingdom for the curing of diseases, both mental and bodily, falls next to
be noticed. It appears of old that if a well had a peculiar situation,
if its waters were bright and clear, it was dedicated to some tutelary
saint, by honouring it with his name. Thus we have St. Fillan’s, St.
Conel’s, St. Catherine’s, St. Bernard’s, St. Cuthbert’s wells, and a host
of others in Scotland. We have hundreds of holy wells in England, such as
St. Chad’s, St. John’s, St. Mary’s, St. Madern’s wells, all remarkable
for something. We have St. Winifred’s holy well in Flintshire, the
most famous in the three kingdoms, at whose shrine Geraldus Cambrensis
offered his devotions in the twelfth century. The vast majority of holy
wells were frequented for any disease, while some wells were visited
for special ailments, for the cure of which they had been celebrated.
St. Tegla’s well was patronised by sufferers from the falling sickness;
St. John’s, Balmanno, Kincardineshire, by rickety children, and sore
eyes. The waters of Trinity Gask, Perthshire, will render all baptised
therein proof against every plague. In the Island of St. Kilda there
are two wells—“Tobar nam buadh” (the spring of virtues), celebrated for
deafness, and “Tobar a’ chleirich” (the clerk’s well)—which, though
covered twice a day by the sea, never becomes brackish. At Kirkden, in
Angus, there is a well said to cure all sores, by mere washing, after the
applications of skilled physicians had proved ineffectual. But by far
the most interesting wells in this country are those formerly resorted
to for the cure of insanity. Of these may be mentioned St Fillan’s well,
near Tyndrum, Perthshire, as well as St. Nun’s celebrated fountain in
Cornwall. The curing process at St. Fillan’s may be described as a
specimen. The lunatics were first plunged into the water, wherein they
were tumbled and tossed about rather roughly. They were then carried
into the adjacent Chapel of St. Fillan’s and there secured with ropes,
tied in a special way. A celebrated bell, which has a history of its
own, was then placed with great solemnity on the patient’s head. There
the poor creature was left all night alone in the dreary chapel, and,
if in the morning he was found unloosed, hopes were entertained that he
would recover his reason, but the case was hopeless if found still in
his bonds. Very frequently the patients were released from the bonds and
tormentors by death, caused by the cold, and all the cruelties inflicted
upon them. St. Catherine’s well, near Edinburgh, was regarded in olden
times with great awe, because there appeared a black substance on its
surface which could be set on fire. This dark-looking, greasy substance
or oil, was supposed to proceed from the strata of coal underneath, and
it was believed to cure all sorts of cutaneous diseases. In the north
end of Skye, and a little beneath the towering cliffs of the far-famed
Quiraing, there is a conflux of pure, fresh-water springs, which form
a small elliptical pond of considerable depth. It is a beautiful spot,
pleasantly hemmed in with shrubs and bushes. It is called “Loch Sianta,”
or the Holy Lake. Owing to the natural beauty of this little Hebridean
Siloam, the natives conceived it to be favoured with its divinity, to
whom, in the days of darkness and superstition, they were extremely
punctual in making offerings of various kinds. Invalids resorted thither,
drank of its waters, washed themselves therein, and received cures
thereby for their mental and bodily ailments. These superstitions have,
however, long ceased, and Loch Sianta, though beautiful as ever, has lost
its ancient charms in this more enlightened age. On the first Sunday
of May (old style) the well at “Creagag” or Craigie, in Munlochy Bay,
was believed to possess powerful charms against diseases, witchcraft,
fairies and such like. For weeks before the time, old and young prepared
for their pilgrimage to this well. All behoved to bring their offerings.
Coloured threads and rags of cloth were brought in thousands, and hung
upon the rocks and brushwood, as propitiatory gifts to the saint of the
healing waters. Even in St. Kilda the divinities of “Tobar nam buadh” and
“Tobar a’ chleirich” had to be propitiated by offerings, in the shape of
shells, pins, needles, pebbles, coins, or rags, otherwise their tutelary
saint would be inexorable. So common, indeed, was this habit, that at
the Rugwell, near Newcastle, the shrubs and bushes near the spring were
densely covered with rags. And many of my readers are old enough to have
seen crowds of the good citizens of the Highland Capital flocking on a
May morn eastward to the well at Culloden to taste of its waters, and to
cover with their offerings of rags the branches of the surrounding trees.
There is a place beyond Kessock Ferry, near the point of Kilmuir, called
“Craigie-How,” where there is a cave close to the sea-beach. In this cave
a little water falls down from the roof in drops on the stones below.
These drops are to this day considered a complete cure for deafness, if
properly applied. The patient lies down, and lays his head on the flags,
and lets the water fall first into the one ear and then into the other.
After some formalities are gone through, the patient rises, and the
deafness is believed to be gone!
Loch Maree also has its Sacred well. The scenery of this part of
Gairloch, in Ross-shire, is unsurpassed, and perhaps rarely, if at all
equalled, by that of any other quarter of the kingdom. The mountains
which surround Loch Maree are of great height, and of beautifully
characterised outline. Their lofty, jagged, serrated peaks, like
Macbeth’s witches, “so withered and so wild in their attire,” present the
finest specimens of the grand and picturesque to be met with anywhere.
The gigantic Slioch (Sliabhach) towering to a height of more than 4000
feet, is seen from afar, even from the remotest of the Northern Hebrides.
Within the bosom of these mountains lies enshrined the far-famed Loch
Maree, with its many wooded islets, so varied in size and so different in
appearance. About twenty-seven of these lie in a cluster near the middle
of the lake (opposite the Loch Maree Hotel), which is eighteen miles in
length, and two in average breadth.
Dr. M’Culloch writes—“It was with some difficulty that we explored our
way through the labyrinth of Islands in the centre of this lake; as they
are little raised above the water, and covered with scattered firs,
and thickets of birch, alder, and holly, while they are separated by
narrow and tortuous channels.” The scene indeed, is so grand, wild, and
fantastic, that words are at fault to describe it. Some years ago it was
visited by tourists, whose admiration of it cannot be better expressed
than in their own words. “When this majestic scene first burst upon our
view, the effect was as surprising and enchanting, as it was unexpected.
The lake sparkled bright in the evening sun. The lofty mountains were,
at their summits, tinged with his golden rays, while in the hollows,
and nearer their base, they were wreathed in mist and light clouds.
The effect of this was to increase to a prodigious degree, the apparent
height of the mountains, to make every hollow on their rugged sides, seem
a deep and inaccessible glen, and to enlarge to an almost immeasurable
extent the lake, and the hills which rose at its extreme distance. It was
altogether a scene of enchantment never to be forgotten. The white piqued
summits of the File-Mountain sparkled like the spires and turrets of an
emerald palace, the work of some eastern magician, or of the genii of
Arabian romance, and forming a splendid contrast to the dark and rugged
Slioch, which rises from the opposite side of the lake!”
It is by no means surprising that Superstition, in her fantastic freaks,
should have, in ages long byegone, selected this weird locality for the
manifestation of not a few of her favourite protegés.
This superb sheet of water, from its almost unfathomable depth and other
dimensions, furnished a befitting receptacle for brownies, water-horses,
uruisgean, kelpies, and such like, while one of the islets of this
beautiful lake became the arena of various superstitious practices,
and of curing therewith some of the most inveterate diseases. The
largest of these Islands are Eilean Suthain (St. Swithan’s Isle),
Eilean Ruairidh Mhoir, and Eilean Ruairidh Bhig. Eilean Maree is the
most celebrated, and was, as some think, dedicated to the Virgin Mary;
others assert that it is named after St. Malrube; but more probably it
is called after a Prince, or petty King who occupied the Island—is,
in short, “Loch-ma-Righ,” or Loch of my King. It has a burying-ground
with tombstones bearing inscriptions and hieroglyphical figures, which
cannot now be deciphered. There is in the Island also a Sacred Well, in
which, as in the pool of St Fillan’s, lunatics were plunged and healed,
and, in short, all manner of diseases cured. Around this sacred spot
the usual oblations were made to the tutelary saint, and coins of every
descriptions stuck into a tree that grew out of the bank. The sacred
water of this well was deemed so effectual in curing the insane, that
they were brought to it from the remotest quarters of the north. The
treatment they received was no doubt somewhat severe. Before they drank
of its waters, it was reckoned indispensable to the permanency of their
cure, that they should be dragged at the stern of a boat twice round the
Island, pulled by a rope made of horse-hair, fastened under their arms
and around their shoulders. They were then dipped in the well, and drank
of its water.
Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria, recently paid a visit to this
romantic district, and held a religious service on the Island. In
commemoration of this welcome visit she has been pleased to sanction a
memorial inscription, by the proprietor of Gairloch, on a large stone
opposite the Loch Maree Hotel, in which she took up her abode. In this
manner our beloved sovereign, whose eye is always keen to observe,
whose taste is exquisite to admire, and whose sensibility is great to
appreciate all that is grand and beautiful in Nature’s workmanship,
has conferred a lasting honour on the true-hearted Highland Chief, Sir
Kenneth S. Mackenzie, Baronet; on his loyal and delighted tenantry; as
well as on his romantic property in Gairloch.
It may be remarked that there is hardly a lake, or perennial fountain in
Scotland of any magnitude, but has certain traditional stories connected
with it, bearing reference to something wild or supernatural. The
celebrated Hugh Miller relates the following regarding the “Fiddler’s
Well,” near Cromarty:—“There is a little path which, in the eastern part
of the parish, goes winding over rock and stone along the edge of a
range of low-browed precipices, till it reaches a fine spring of limpid
water, that comes gushing out of the side of a bank, covered with moss
and daisies. This beautiful spring has been known to the people of the
town, for a century and more, by the name of Fiddler’s Well. Its waters
are said to be medicinal; and there is a tradition still preserved,
of the circumstance through which its virtues were first discovered,
and to which it owes its name. Two young men of the place, who were
much attached to each other, were seized at nearly the same time by
consumption. In one the progress of the disease was rapid; he died two
short months after he was attacked by it; while the other, though wasted
almost to a shadow, had yet strength enough left to follow the corpse of
his companion to the grave. The surname of the survivor was Fiddler, a
name still common among the seafaring men of the town. On the evening of
the interment, he felt oppressed and unhappy, his imagination was haunted
by a thousand feverish shapes of open graves, with bones smouldering
round their edges, and of coffins with the lids displaced; and after he
had fallen asleep, the images, which were still the same, became more
grisly and horrible. Towards morning, however, they had all vanished;
and he dreamed that he was walking alone by the sea-shore in a clear
beautiful day in summer. Suddenly, as he thought, some person stepped
up behind, and whispered into his ear, in the voice of his deceased
companion, ‘Go on, Willie, I shall meet you at Stormy’. There is a rock
in the neighbourhood of Fiddler’s Well, so called from the violence with
which the sea beats against it, when the wind blows strongly from the
east. On hearing the voice, he turned round, and seeing no one, he went
on as he thought, to the place named, in the hope of meeting with his
friend, and sat down on a bank to wait for his coming; but he waited
long, lonely and dejected; and then remembering that he for whom he
waited was dead, he burst into tears. At this moment, a large field-bee
came humming from the west, and began to fly round his head. He raised
his hand to brush it away; it widened its circle, and then came humming
in to his ear as before. He raised his hand a second time, but the bee
could not be scared off; it hummed ceaselessly round and round him, until
at length its murmurings seemed to be fashioned into words, articulated
in the voice of his deceased companion. ‘Dig, Willie, and drink,’ it
said, ‘Dig, Willie, and drink.’ He, accordingly, set himself to dig, and
no sooner had he torn a sod out of the bank, than a spring of clear water
gushed from the hollow; and the bee, taking a wider circle, and humming
in a voice of triumph that seemed to emulate the sound of a trumpet,
flew away. He looked after it, but as he looked, the images of his dream
began to mingle with those of the waking world; the scenery of the hill
seemed obscured by a dark cloud, in the centre of which there glimmered a
faint light; the rocks, the sea, the long declivity faded into the cloud;
and turning round, he saw only a dark apartment, and the first beams of
morning shining in at the window. He rose, and after digging the well,
drank of the water, and recovered. And its virtues are still celebrated;
for though the water be only simple water, it must be drunk in the
morning, and as it gushes out of the bank; and with pure air, exercise,
and early rising for its auxiliaries, it continues to work cures.”[11]
It has been remarked, that almost all our lakes, fountains, pools,
waterfalls, rocky crevices, and caves, have been tenanted, by
superstition, with water-horses, kelpies, uruisgean, and brownies. Of
this there are many instances in the Highland districts of Perthshire,
which are now made classic ground by the magic pen of the author
of Waverley. Beinn Venue is a lofty mountain which rises from the
south-east shore of Loch Katrine. The celebrated “Coir-nan-Uruisgean,”
or Goblin’s Cave, is situated at its base. It is guarded by precipitous
rocks, which lie strewed in immense fragments on every side, and this
well-defended corrie or cave, affords a safe asylum for foxes, badgers,
and wild-cats; as also one equally safe, if the natives be credited, for
the goblins, kelpies, and uruisgean. The uruisgean are, in short, no
strangers in various quarters of Perthshire, as well as in most parts
of the Highlands. Dr. Graham says that they are “a sort of lubberly
supernaturals, who could be gained over by kind attention, to perform the
drudgery of the farm; and it was believed that many Highland families had
some of the order so tamed, as to become attached to them”. Sir Walter
Scott states that “tradition has ascribed to the uruisgean, a figure
between a goat and a man; in short, however much the classical reader may
be startled, precisely that of a Grecian Satyr.”
It is related of an honest farmer’s wife in Glenlyon, that one wet
morning, as the decent matron was in the act of making the porridge for
the family breakfast, she had an unexpected visit from an “uruisg,” who
came in unceremoniously, cold, dripping with rain, and squatted herself
close by the cheering fire. There the huge, slippery-skinned, uncouth
monster lay, enjoying the genial warmth, but awkwardly impeding the
worthy good-wife from cooking the family meal. Sadly annoyed at the
monster’s impertinence, the good old lady lifted a ladleful of the
boiling beverage from the pot on the fire, and poured it on the sides and
thighs of her unwelcome guest, on which, the creature arose suddenly,
darted off in a moment, upsetting tables and chairs, and exclaiming in
pure Gaelic:—
Ochan! loisg thu mi, chràidh thu mi,
Led’ bhrochan teth, tana, gu’n stà;
Ach fhad’s bhios uisg’ ann an Liobhain,
Cha chriochnaich do pheanas gu bràth.
A’ Chaillich gu’n mhodh, is gu’n nair
’S tu chiurr mi gu goirt, is gu searbh,
Ach thig mi le armachd gu’n dàil,
Is cuiream gu bàs thu gu dearbh!
We ought to learn one lesson from this subject—gratitude to the Great
Ruler, because we live in more favourable circumstances, and under
the light and liberty of a preached Gospel. The press and the pulpit
have now opened the eyes of men; the schoolmaster is abroad; and many
superstitions by which past ages have been deluded have greatly vanished
before the pure light of evangelic truth. In many quarters of the world
they have disappeared before the lustre of that revelation which has
brought the truth of immortality to light, and which impresses the
imagination of man with truer notions and simpler imagery. We cannot
but admire the dauntless courage of Paul when he boldly faced the
Epicurean and stoic philosophers—when “he stood in the midst of Mars’
Hill, and said, Ye men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are
too superstitious”. There he met a people, the most distinguished for
the wisdom of their political constitution, for the brilliancy of their
achievements, for the extent and variety of their learning, and for the
refinement of their manners; yet a people who, amid all their glory and
renown, were ignorant of the true God, and lived the blind and deluded
victims of the grossest idolatry and superstition.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES
[1] In corroboration of the main facts here stated, we quote
the following from “Walford’s County Families of the United
Kingdom”:—“FLETCHER, JAMES, Esq. of Rosehaugh, Ross-shire, son of the
late Wm. Jack, Esq., by Isabel, dau. of the late Charles Fletcher, Esq.,
and brother of J. C. Fletcher, Esq.; _b._ 18—; _m._ 1852, Frederica Mary,
dau. of John Stephen, Esq., niece of Sir Alfred Stephen, C.B., Chief
Justice of New South Wales, and widow of Alexander Hay, Esq., of the 58th
Regt.… He assumed the name of Fletcher in lieu of his patronymic on the
death of his mother in 1856.”
[2] A place of that name near Beauly.