St. Adelbert's Curse a Charm against
Thieves--Complexion of Blackamoors attributed to a
Curse of Noah--False Accusation, and its
Results--Preservation of Children--A Joyful
Mother--Ancestors of the Whelphs and Guelphs of
Germany--An Interesting Legend--A Curse turned into a
Blessing--A Gipsy's Curse--A Cruel Father and
Husband--Morrar-na-Shean's Despair--Bitter
Grief--Restoration of Three Daughters--A Grateful
Father--Ancestors of the Sinclairs of Caithness, and
of the noble family of Keith--The Curse of Moy--A
Cruel Chieftain of Clan Chattan--A Lady's Dilemma--A
Father yielding up his Life--Swearing by the Hand of a
Bride--Grant of Glenmorriston waiting his Doom--Death
of a Father and Lover--An Imprisoned
Maiden--Maledictions and Prediction--Lady leaping from
a Lofty Tower into a Lake beneath--The Monroes of
Foulis--Foraying Expedition--An Unreasonable
Request--End of a Relentless Tyrant--Prediction
fulfilled.
St. Adelbert's curse was a charm against thieves. It was full of
cursing against dishonest persons, and prayers that they might have
their share with Dathan and Abiram, whom the earth swallowed up, and
have their part with Judas. Thieves were to be cursed in their houses,
fields, and everywhere; they were to be denied Christian burial; yea,
the very ground in which they rested was to be cursed. Their bodies,
in all their separate parts, and their children, were damned; and as
Lucifer was expelled out of heaven, and Adam and Eve driven from
Paradise, so they were sought to be expelled from the light of day.
The terrible curse was pronounced with bell, book, and candle; and
concluded with this fearful denunciation: "And as the candle, which is
thrown out of my hand here, is put out, so let their works and their
souls be quenched in the stench of hell-fire, except they restore that
which they have stolen; and let every one say, Amen."
Perhaps few are aware that the dark complexion of the blackamoors is
attributed to a curse of Noah; but as that statement has been
disputed, we shall pass it without further notice.
Irmentrude, a German countess, accused a noble lady of adultery
because she had three children at one birth, saying that she deserved
to be tied up in a sack and thrown into the sea. Next year the
countess herself was delivered of more sons at a birth than the lady
had brought forth. Touched with remorse for the hard saying she had
uttered against her neighbour, she concluded it was a just punishment
inflicted; but being anxious to conceal the most extraordinary result,
she sent a maid to drown all the children except one--a son--to heir
his father's estate. Fate so determined that her husband, the earl,
met the young woman as she was going to consign the young inoffensive
infants to a watery grave. On asking what was in her lap, she answered
that she was going to drown some whelps. The earl being a great
hunter, and consequently fond of dogs, demanded to see the whelps,
that he might judge whether they should be destroyed. To his
astonishment, he found children in place of young dogs, all living,
well-proportioned, and beautiful, but small. From the maid he learned
the whole truth; whereupon he enjoined her to silence, and caused the
infants to be carried to one of his tenants to be brought up. When
they became of age, they were sent for to his house, after being
dressed like their brother, who had been cared for by the mother. As
soon as the countess cast her eyes on her offspring she knew them,
and wept in a state between shame and joy. From those children
descended the family of the Whelphs or Guelphs, long renowned in
Germany.
An interesting legend is current in the north of Scotland, of a curse
being turned into a blessing. It is said that Lochmore Castle, in the
parish of Halkirk and county of Caithness, was built and inhabited by
a person called Morrar-na-Shean, which signifies, Lord of the Game or
Venison, because he was a great sportsman. He was very anxious to have
a son to inherit his estates, but his hopes in this respect were
blasted by the curse of a wandering gipsy. It appears that the gipsy
was one day near Lochmore Castle, with a pretty little dark-haired
swarthy-complexioned boy, her son, when she encountered
Morrar-na-Shean in a towering passion--a state of mind in which he was
often to be found. He ordered her and her "beggar bastard brat" to be
off, or he would shoot them. The woman, instead of running away with
her child or imploring mercy, knelt down and cursed him, and praying
at the same time that he might never have an heir to carry down his
name to posterity. However far the fortunes of Morrar-na-Shean's
family were affected by the gipsy's curses and prayers, it is
impossible to say; but this much is true, he never had a son. His lady
had a daughter, at which he was greatly disappointed; she had a second
daughter, at which he exhibited marked signs of displeasure; and in
course of time a third daughter was born to the churlish parent.
Disappointed and enraged at not having a son, he abused the mother and
daughters to such an extent that the unhappy lady, for the sake of
peace, and to save the lives of her children, sent them away
privately, to be brought up by friends. They grew up beautiful and
accomplished young ladies, while at the time their cruel father
thought they were dead. Morrar-na-Shean, after the lapse of years,
despaired of having any children to survive him, and therefore gave
himself up to grief. In bitterness of soul, he wished that he had now
even one of the little girls he spurned as if she were not his own
flesh and blood. His lady, finding his mind so much changed, embraced
a favourable opportunity of presenting him with his three daughters.
Immediately, on seeing them, he was overcome by tender affection,
evoked by the charms of three blooming girls he was privileged to call
daughters. He lived to be grateful that fortune had so willed it that
his estates would not be in the possession of one child, but would be
claimed by three children whom he dearly loved. The daughters were
soon disposed of in marriage--the eldest to a gentleman named
Sinclair, an ancestor of the well and favourably known Caithness-shire
family of that name; the second to a gentleman named Keith, whose
descendants have long borne an honourable name in Scotland; and the
third, to a nobleman, the scions of whose house have carved out for
themselves niches in the temple of fame.
"The curse of Moy" was a fearfully realised one. On the larger of two
small islands at Loch Moy (a beautiful lake, twelve miles from
Inverness), may be seen the ruins of an ancient castle. Centuries ago
a noble edifice stood where those decayed buildings are, occupied by a
cruel chieftain of Clan Chattan. He and his followers had an encounter
with another Highland chieftain and his retainers from Glenmorriston,
when the latter chief, his fair daughter Margaret, and her lover
Allan, the young heir of Alvie, were taken prisoners, and carried to
Castle Moy. While the captured chieftain and Allan were immured in the
dungeon, Margaret was conveyed to a feast in the hall, thence she was
transferred to an apartment in the tower, where the chief of Clan
Chattan (who, it should be remarked, was a rejected suitor of
Margaret) tried to induce her to become his bride. To all his
entreaties she turned a deaf ear, preferring to remain true to her
youthful Allan. She pleaded earnestly for her father and lover's
lives, and, after many entreaties and tears, succeeded so far as to
obtain a promise that only one of them would die. She was permitted to
make choice of the one she wished liberated, but was warned that by so
doing she sealed the doom of the other captive.
As might be expected, the lady sank fainting on the floor, where she
lay, more like one dead than alive, until rude attendants, desirous to
please their lord, raised her up and hurried her into the presence of
her father and lover, for whose sakes she would have willingly laid
down her life if it could have saved theirs. With sobbing and tears,
she made known the resolution of the hard-hearted revengeful monster,
into whose power destiny had placed them. While the broken-hearted
Margaret's eyes were now fixed on her lover's manly figure, and then
on the bowed form of her aged father, and before she could really
understand the full extent of responsibility that rested on her, she
was embraced by her father, who took her hand and that of Allan, and
joined them together, beseeching them to live and remember him when he
was no more. He then made Allan swear by the hand of his bride that he
would avenge his death, and so leave no stain on their honour or
names. Girding himself up like a man of courage, he sent this message
to the tyrant chief: "The Grant of Glenmorriston waits his doom."
Enraged at the turn of events, the chieftain, in violation of his
promise to the maiden, determined that Allan should not survive to
stand between him and the union of Margaret. Sad forebodings filled
her mind during the succeeding night. Silent and alone she sat until
break of day, when she was aroused by the shrill pibroch, heavy
footsteps, and the clank of arms. A silent prayer went up for the soul
of her parent, who, she rightly judged, was suffering the last pangs
of death. How it was she could not tell, but something whispered to
her that Allan too was passing into the land of spirits.
She had not long to wait, though the time seemed to her like an age,
before the chieftain of Moy appeared before her, and commanded her to
come forth to see the youth of her choice. More dead than alive, she
staggered into the open air, to behold the lifeless forms of both her
father and Allan. In derision, the monster asked what she thought now
of her beardless boy, and said, "That is the way I tame haughty
maids." Again she was conveyed to her lonely room in the castle tower
to spend the night in solitude, and again the daylight broke in
through the small window of her strongly-guarded prison. She heeded
not the sun, nor the singing of birds as they warbled their matin
songs--no, sorrow lay too heavy near her heart. None can ever tell the
grief she endured in the dark watches of the lonely night, or when
relief came; but come it did. Nature took its own way of causing the
unhappy lady to forget her sadness of heart--reason left its seat, and
the orphaned Margaret, instead of grieving over the past, was found
singing as sweetly as if she were a bride in a peaceful bower. Now and
again the shrill clear voice in song ceased, and then she talked (so
the attendants said) to the unseen spirits of those dear to her, whose
bodies were still suspended over the castle gate.
The fierce chieftain approached her again with overtures of love,
offering her his hand, titles, and estates. To avoid his unholy
embrace, she, without waiting to deign a reply, sprang past him with
an agility which appeared superhuman, and rushed to the ramparts, that
were skirted by the blue waters beneath; then, turning round to the
chief of Clan Chattan, she uttered dreadful maledictions against him,
ending with the prediction that he would die a bloody death, leaving
neither wife nor child behind. Having said this, she leaped from the
giddy height into the lake below, in whose waves she preferred to
take refuge rather than yield to the tyrant's solicitations. As far
as can be ascertained, the wicked Macintosh repented not of his deeds,
but continued to conduct himself in a tyrannical manner to all weaker
than himself. At last a day of reckoning came--the day when Lady
Margaret's curse was to alight upon the head of the murderer of her
father and lover. In the summer of 1378, a short time after these
deeds of darkness happened, the Monroes of Foulis were returning from
a foraying expedition, and asked permission from the chief of Clan
Chattan to pass through his country for half the booty they had with
them. Macintosh demanded the whole spoil; but, his unreasonable
request being refused, a sanguinary conflict ensued, in which the Clan
Chattan chief was slain. The victorious Monroes then hastened to the
castle of Moy, and put the whole of the inmates to the sword. Thus
perished a relentless tyrant, leaving no fond wife to mourn his fate,
nor any offspring to carry his name down to posterity. Thereby was
fulfilled the prediction of Lady Margaret, whose bones still rest at
the bottom of Loch Moy.
DREAMS AND VISIONS OF THE NIGHT.