HOBGOBLINS.
The term _Bòchdan_ (pron. Baucan) is a general name for terrifying
objects seen at night, and taken to be supernatural, bugbears, ghosts,
apparitions, goblins, etc., in all their variety. The word conveys as
much the idea of fright in the observer as of anything hurtful or violent
in the object itself. It is derived from _bòchd_, to come in a swelling
and resistless flood, not an unapt description of the manner in which
fear takes possession of its victims. Any object, indistinctly seen, may
prove a hobgoblin of this kind. It may be merely a neighbour playing
pranks by going about in a white sheet, a stray dog, a bush waving and
sighing in the night wind, or even a peat-stack looming large in the
imperfect light. There is a story of a man on Loch Rannoch-side who
fought a bush, in mistake for a ghost, in a hollow, which had an evil
name for being haunted. The conflict continued till dawn, when he was
found exhausted, scratched, and bleeding.
Sometimes the Baucan, or terrifying object, causes fright by its mere
appearance, sometimes by the noises it makes, and sometimes by its
silence. In appearance it is commonly a man or woman moving silently
past, and not speaking till spoken to, if even then; but it has also
been encountered as a black dog, that accompanies the traveller part of
his way, as a headless body (a particularly dangerous form of ghost),
as a he-goat, or simply a dark moving object. At other times it is
terrific from having a chain clanking after it, from its whistling with
unearthly loudness, by horrible and blood-freezing cries and sounds of
throttling, and sometimes it makes its presence known only by faint and
hardly audible sounds. In fact, the number and variety of things by which
superstitious terror may be awakened at night are countless.
In most cases the Baucan is deemed the precursor of a sudden or violent
death to occur at the place where it is seen or heard. It is remembered
after the event that an unaccountable light was seen there at night, or a
horse had become uneasy and could not be induced by its rider to pass, or
something extraordinary had been observed, which the popular imagination
connects with the subsequent event. At other times the Baucan is the
spirit of the dead revisiting the earth, that it may be spoken to, and
unburden itself of some secret that disturbs its rest. Sometimes it is an
evil spirit on some message of darkness and sometimes merely a sound or
indistinct object by which the wayfarer is frightened, but of which he is
unable to give any lucid description. Fright is destructive of curiosity,
and a person ready to faint with terror cannot be expected to be critical
in his observations, nor afterwards coherent in his statements. Besides,
vagueness or indistinctness as to the cause—an element to which the
obscurity of night lends a ready aid—tends to render fear more frantic.
If the observer had a distinct view of the object of his alarm, and
knew exactly what it was, even though it were a spirit of darkness, his
terror would be less. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_ is an axiom that holds
especially true in such cases, and it is ignorance of its own cause that
gives terror its wildest forms. A ghost or apparition seen in the day
time, if that were possible, would not be at all so dreadful.
It may be said, that every Highland village has near it a locality
where a ghost or _baucan_ is, or was, to be seen. A favourite haunt
for these unearthly visitants is by the fords of rivers (_beul àth na
h-aimhne_), where generally bridges have been built in modern times,
near churchyards, on dark moors, and in hollows, or rather at the top of
the ascent from hollows, traversed by the public road. Not unfrequently
there is a projecting rock (_sròin creige_) near the spot, and this may
have its own share in producing that sense of loneliness and awe, which
makes the belated peasant prone to convert stray animals and unusual
appearances into ghosts and spirits. It is a noticeable feature in
ghost stories, that it is principally to those travelling alone, and not
accustomed to walk the night, that ghosts are visible. They have been
seen in houses, and even in towns, but ordinarily they affect lonely
places, where naturally men are more apt to be timorous.
The “Black Shore” (_du-chladach_) as it is called, _i.e._ the shore below
the line or roll of seaweed thrown up by the tide (_ròlag ròid_), is,
according to Highland belief, an asylum from all kinds of supernatural
beings that haunt the night, fairies, ghosts, or evil spirits. No being
“at all, at all” of the kind (_seòrsa sam bith, sam bith_) can go below
the tide mark. The confidence of the timorous in this place of refuge is
confirmed by the assurance that they are not exposed to a similar danger
from the sea. It is a saying, “Evil comes not from the sea” (_Cha d’thig
olc sam bith o’n fhairge_).
Ghosts and evil spirits cannot cross a running stream, a belief which had
its origin before the days of bridges. The shock given to the nerves by
the cold water, when it was of any depth, served to dispel the optical
delusion caused by unfounded terror.
When about to encounter a Baucan the dirk should be partly drawn from its
sheath, otherwise it will prove impossible during the encounter to draw
the weapon. In the event of the evil spirit asking its name it should
not be called by its proper name, “a dirk” (_biodag_), but “my father’s
sister” (_piuthar m’athar_), “my grandmother’s sister” (_piuthar mo
sheanamhair_) or by some similar title. This prevents enchantments being
laid upon it to render it useless. The effect of these is, that instead
of giving the ghost its _quietus_, the weapon merely makes a tinkling
noise (_gliong_) against it. Evil spirits cannot bear the touch of cold
steel. Iron, or preferably steel, in any form is a protection, though it
is not obvious how or why, against the fairies,—an iron ring on the point
of a staff is as good as a sword, but evil spirits are subdued by it only
when made into a lethal weapon.
In the struggle the ghost is in the hands of its opponent, soft as a bag
of wool or impalpable as air. At every tussle, therefore, the unfortunate
man is thrown down and injured.
In the presence of an evil spirit, a dog defends its master, or crouches
in terror about his feet, but a bitch jumps at his throat, and if it
can will tear him. It is, however, rendered harmless, by taking blood
from its ear, or tying a collar (_conghal_ i.e. _ceangal_), usually its
master’s garter, about its neck. Similarly an entire horse was said to
defend its master, but a mare attacked him. It was also a belief, that an
entire horse could not be injured by witches or evil spirits.
The best protection is a circle drawn round one’s self on the ground with
the point of a sapling or dirk, saying “The Cross of Christ be upon us”
(_Crois Chriosd oirnn!_) All the spirits that infest the night may dash
in fury against this circle, but they can no more pass it, than the most
threatening waves of the sea the rocks that form their appointed bounds.
As already suggested, this circle is the superstitious representative of
a person’s own integrity, within which he is safe from the attacks and
wiles of the devil. It is known also in Ireland, as the following story
told in Arisaig, Inverness-shire, by an Irish packman, shows.
A priest’s brother having died, a young man, who had been a bosom friend
of his, expressed an ardent wish some weeks after to see him again. That
same evening he was met by the shade of his dead companion, and the two
had a long talk together. They spoke of the pleasure, they had in each
other’s society, and the dead man got the other to promise to meet him
at the same spot the following evening. It added, “To make you sure it
is indeed I, you will tell my brother the priest of such and such an
occurrence [describing it], which nobody knows but he and I.” On his way
home, the young man called upon the priest, and told what he had seen.
“It is not my brother’s ghost at all,” said the priest, “but the devil,
who is trying to decoy you into his power; I will go with you to-morrow
night to meet him.” The two went together to the place of appointment,
the priest taking with him a dirk, with which he traced a circle round
them, and an iron hoop, inside of which also they stood. A figure in face
and form like the priest’s brother, “most like, yet not the same,” came,
but on finding itself outwitted, and a Bible being opened before it, went
away in a flame of fire.
THE _Bodach_, OR CARLE.
The _bodach_ (lit. a carle, an old man) is perhaps the commonest form of
Baucan, so common that in some districts, _e.g._ the Lord Reay country
(_Dùthaich Mhic Aoi_), as the seven parishes nearest to Cape Wrath are
called, they have no other name for apparitions or terrifying objects
seen at night. It is the figure of a man, who is no “living wight,”
seen at night, and as may readily be imagined, this kind of apparition
is frequently seen when children are obstreperous, querulous, or crying
without cause, as their manner is. The Beckoning Old Man (_Bodach an
Sméididh_) appears about the corners of houses, making signs with his
hand for people to come to him. The _Corra-lòigein_, whatever his name
may mean, stands in places which it is desirable to keep children from
wandering to after dark, and will ill-treat any of whom it gets a
hold. The principal of these _Lemures_ is “The Son of Platter-pool,”
whose full title is, “The Son of Platter-pool from grey spike, silken
spike, great caterpillar.”[32] This, as his name indicates, is really a
frightful bugbear; he looks in at windows, flattens his face against the
panes, sharpens his teeth with much noise, and takes away children in a
twinkling, unless they keep quiet. Neither he, however, nor any of his
brother bugbears, enter a house unless called in. The threat of doing so
is generally quite sufficient to silence the most ill-grained child.
FUATH.
This word means literally aversion, hatred, but in Ross-shire is a common
word to denote an apparition, ghost, spectre. In this latter sense, it is
rare in Argyleshire. In the poem of the _Muireartach_ or _Muileartach_,
which may be translated, “Western Sea,” foster-mother of Manus, King of
Lochlin, describing her attack upon Fin MacCoul and his men, it is said:
“The name of the daring spectre (fuath)
Was the bold, red, white-maned Westlin Sea;
Her face was dusky, of the hue of coal,
The teeth of her jaws crooked red;
In her head there glared a single eye,
That swifter moved than bait-pursuing mackerel;
And on her head there bristled dark-grey hair,
Like brushwood covered with hoar-frost.”[33]
The attributes of the _Fuath_ are different in different tales, and
Mr. Campbell (_Tales of the West Highlands_, ii. 191) has fallen into
the error of conjoining attributes ascribed in several stories, and
representing the _Fuath_ as a water spirit, having web-feet, tail, mane,
etc. The name of a desolate moor near Ullapool, in Ross-shire, “The
Flat-stoned Declivity of Fuaths” (_Leathad leacanta nam Fuath_), is alone
convincing it was not deemed particularly a water spirit.
The following tales will illustrate the character of Highland hobgoblins
and such-like objects of terror better than a lengthened disquisition.
CACHLAIDH NA FEUSAIG, ISLAY.
At the bottom of a dell, or hollow, through which the public road lies,
in the island of Islay, there was a gate across the road, bearing the
above name, which means “The Beard gateway.” At this place things
unearthly were encountered after dark. One night a man saw an indistinct
object coming towards him. He could give no account of it, but that
its mouth was wide open, as if to devour him, and that from the width
of its gape he could see its lungs (_sgamhan_) down its throat. He was
accompanied, fortunately, by a large Newfoundland dog, which rushed
between his legs at the “thing,” and a terrific fight ensued. He ran away
home, leaving them at it. In the morning the dog came without any hair on
its body, and shortly after its return expired.
About the middle of February, a party was coming home from the
market held on the Level Ridge (_Imire Còmhnard_) at Ballygrant (Ugly
Town). Before parting they entered a roadside inn. One of them, Ewen
M’Corkindale, had, after leaving, to pass through the Beard gateway and
the haunted dell. His companions made fun of him, and asked him if he
was not afraid of the _Bodach_, the carle, or old man, who haunted the
dell. Out of fool-hardiness, Ewen proposed “the health of the _bodach_,
the old man, and let the _cailleach_, the old wife, go to the dogs.”
When he reached the haunted spot two apparitions, an old man and an old
woman, met him. The old woman endeavoured to attack him, but the old man
kept her off, and ever after, at every opportunity, the same scene was
rehearsed, the old wife attacked him and the old man defended him. The
latter also told him to go to a smithy in Ireland, others say to two
brothers in Cantyre, and get a dirk made, and as long as he kept this on
his person the old woman would not venture to attack him. The dirk bent
three times in the making, and from its possession Ewen acquired the
title of “Ewen of the Dirk” (_Eoghan na biodaig_). As he was working one
evening by moonlight in the harvest field, he left the dirk on a stook of
corn, along with his vest. The carlin wife got between him and the dirk,
and gave him such a squeeze that he put out three mouthfuls of blood. The
_bodach_ came, but too late, to his rescue. It however, told him, that if
he survived till cock-crowing, five years would be added to his life.
Ewen woke up now and then to ask if the cock crew yet, but when it did
it was too late. Very likely the poor man died of some rupture or heart
disease. The dirk was preserved by his son.
THE HEADLESS BODY (_Colann gun cheann_).
At the shore and forming part of the boundary between North and South
Morar,[34] on the west coast of Inverness-shire, there is a large rocky
mound (_cnoc mòr creige_), which was long the cause of terror in the
district. At the base of the mound a road can be taken along the shore
when the tide is out. No one, however, taking it alone after nightfall,
lived to tell the tale. His remains were found next day among the large
boulder stones (_eòmach mòr chlach_), of which the shore is full,
mangled, and bearing traces of a ghastly and unnatural death. Persons
who had the second sight looking over the rocks that overhang the shore
said they saw a phantom or “something” haunting the place, having the
shape of a headless human figure. Macdonall or MacCuïl, as he is styled,
of South Morar (_Mac Dhughaill mhòrair_), whose house was not far from
the scene of the Headless Body’s violence, unexpectedly became the means
of expelling it from its haunt. He was one winter evening unexpectedly
visited by a friend. He had no one to send to Bracara across the river,
to invite some more friends to come and join in the entertainment of
his guest but his son and heir, then about 18 years of age. He strictly
enjoined the youth not to return that night unless men came with him,
for fear of the Headless Body. The young man did not find the friends he
was sent for at home, and with the temerity natural to his years came
back alone. The Body met him and killed him, and in the morning were
found traces of a fearful struggle, large stones displaced and clots of
blood, as if the youth had put out his heart’s blood. MacCuïl made a
solemn vow neither to eat nor drink till he avenged his son’s death. All
that evening his friends tried to persuade him to remain at home, but
to no purpose. The Headless Body never appeared but to those who passed
its way alone, and the chief’s friends had to return while he went on
unaccompanied to the haunted rocks. The Body came out and said, “You have
come to take your son’s ransom (_éiric_); take counsel, and go home.” To
this the chief replied by clasping his arms round the hated apparition. A
furious struggle commenced, and to this day the stones may be seen which
were rolled out of their way in the dread encounter. At last the strong
and fearless chief got the Headless Body under, and drew his dirk to stab
it. The Body cried, “Hold your hand, MacCuïl, touch me not with the iron,
and while there is one within the twentieth degree related to you (_air
an fhicheadamh miar_) in Morar, I will not again be seen.”
When this story was heard some years ago there were only two alive within
this relationship to the ancient chief, one a harmless idiot, the other
a poor woman in Fort William. One or other of them must be still alive,
for the Headless Ghost has not yet made its reappearance. The person from
whom it was heard, was a firm believer in its truth, and in his youth,
half a century ago, was well acquainted with the district in which the
events were said to have occurred. He had learned and practised the
tailoring trade there.
Another, and somewhat different, version of the tale will be found in
Campbell’s _West Highland Tales_, ii. 89. In it the subduing of the
ghost is ascribed to Stout John, Laird of Raasay, a proof of the manner
in which floating popular tales attach themselves to known characters.
The words ascribed to the Body as it went away, were composed in the
East Indies by a piper of the name of Bruce from East-side, Skye. _Beinn
Heidera_ and _Bealach a Bhorbhain_ are both in East-side, Skye. The
words are an adaptation of an old tune, “_Thogainn fonn air gille an
t-sealgair_.”
The tale quoted by Scott (_Lay of the Last Minstrel_ note Q) from Henry
the Minstrel, of Sir William Wallace’s encounter with the Headless
Body is also known in the Hebrides, and has been told to the writer
by a native of the extreme west of Tiree. According to this version,
Macfadyen’s head was cut off by Wallace to avoid his falling alive into
the hands of the English. Macfadyen was an old man and not able to keep
up with the rest of the retreating company. When Wallace himself went
to open the door, the Headless Body stood holding the head by the hair
in its hand, and threw it at Wallace. Wallace picked it up and flung it
out at the door as far as he could. The Headless Body went in search of
it and Wallace made his escape by a window on the opposite side of the
castle.
There is a rhyme with which probably some legend was formerly connected:
“When Fionn went to the hill
He met Headless Body.”[35]
It was deemed very foolhardy in a boy to go out after dark alone and say,
“Headless Body
Come and take me away.”[36]
THE GREY PAW (_Spòg liath_).
In the big church of Beauly (_Eaglais mhor na manachain_, _i.e._ of
the Monastery) mysterious and unearthly sights and sounds were seen
and heard at night, and none who went to watch the churchyard or
burial-places within the church ever came back alive. A courageous tailor
made light of the matter and laid a wager that he would go any night, and
sew a pair of hose in the haunted church. He went and began his task.
The light of the full moon streamed in through the windows, and at first
all was silent and natural. At the dead hour of midnight, however, a big
ghastly head emerged from a tomb and said, “Look at the old grey cow that
is without food, tailor.”[37] The tailor answered, “I see that and I sew
this,” and soon found that while he spoke the ghost was stationary, but
when he drew breath it rose higher. The neck emerged and said, “A long
grizzled weasand that is without food, tailor.”[38] The tailor went on
with his work in fear, but answered, “I see it, my son, I see it, my son,
I see that and I sew this just now.”[39] This he said drawling out his
words to their utmost length. At last his voice failed and he inhaled a
long breath. The ghost rose higher and said, “A long grey arm that is
without flesh or food, tailor.”[40] The trembling tailor went on with
his work and answered, “I see it, my son, I see it, my son; I see that
and I sew this just now.” Next breath the thigh came up and the ghastly
apparition said, “A long, crooked shank that is without meat, tailor.” “I
see it, my son, I see it, my son; I see that and I sew this just now.”
The long foodless and fleshless arm was now stretched in the direction of
the tailor. “A long grey paw without blood or flesh, or muscles, or meat,
tailor.”[41] The tailor was near done with his work and answered, “I see
it, my son, I see it, my son; I see that and I sew this just now,” while
with a trembling heart he proceeded with his work. At last he had to
draw breath, and the ghost, spreading out its long and bony fingers and
clutching the air in front of him, said, “A big grey claw that is without
meat, tailor.”[42] At that moment the last stitch was put in the hose,
and the tailor gave one spring of horror to the door. The claw struck at
him and the point of the fingers caught him by the bottom against the
door-post and took away the piece. The mark of the hand remains on the
door to this day. The tailor’s flesh shook and quivered with terror, and
he could cut grass with his haunches as he flew home.
This is perhaps the most widely known and most popular story in the
Highlands. Its incidents can be reproduced on a winter evening with
frightful distinctness by means of a shadow on the wall. This gives
it a wonderful attraction for children, and if fear can under any
circumstances be called into healthy action (and dread, like any other
power or capacity of the mind must have a proper and healthy action),
it is in listening to this or similar stories. Their baneful effects,
if such there be, soon disappear. There is hardly an old church in the
Highlands, where the event has not been said to have occurred. A writer
in the last statistical account (Argyleshire, p. 682 note) claims it
for the old church of Glassary. In Skye it is placed in the _Eaglais
Uamhalta_ in Conasta near Duntulm. The old church of Beauly has the most
popular claim, though to a youthful audience the truth of the story is
much confirmed by putting the scene in some place that they know.
In the cathedral of Iona, there is a small nook pointed out, called “the
tailor’s hole” (_Toll an taìllear_), where it is said the monks kept the
tailor who made their clothes. They kept him too long, and too busy at
his work, and at last “things” began to trouble him at night. The worst
of these was a fleshless hand that used to show itself on the wall, and
say, “a great grey paw that is without meat, tailor.”
Another form of the tale is that the tailor was at the _aire chlaidh_,
_i.e._ watching the graveyard, of a friend, in a chapel (_caibeal_)
when the foodless figure began to emerge from a tomb. The tailor did
not run away till the figure had got up as far as the knees, and said:
“_Sliasaid liath reamhar_,” etc.
EWEN AND THE CARLIN WIFE.
One of the commonest of Gaelic sayings is, “Whether he would or not, as
the old wife came upon Ewen,” to which is frequently added, “a wife as
big as his mother” (_a dheòin no dh’aindeoin, mar thainig a chailleach
air Eoghan, bean cho mòr ri mhathair_). There are various versions of the
origin of this tale, but none of them common.
The celebrated Ewen Cameron of Locheil (who is characterised by Macaulay,
in his _History of England_, as the Ulysses of the Highlands, a gracious
master, a trusty ally, and a terrible enemy), was on a journey, as the
story goes, from Aberdeen to Inverness. He was at the time a young man,
and on entering the inn, in which he stayed at Aberdeen, the evening
before starting, he found sitting before him an old woman he had never
seen before. On seeing Ewen she wrinkled up her nose, tossed her head,
and said “hĭh.” Ewen, being of a witty humour, replied by wrinkling up
his own nose, tossing his head, and saying “hŏh.” Next morning when
starting, he found the hag waiting for him at the door. She said, “Step
it out, Ewen” (_Ceum ann, Eoghain!_) He said nothing, but went on his
way. All day the old woman walked alongside, and, whenever his steps
flagged, repeated her challenge to him to step it out. Ashamed to be
beat by an old woman, and agile as a wild cat, Ewen held on at a headlong
pace, and before nightfall the pair were in Inverness, 108 miles away.
Ewen was sadly fatigued, as may well be supposed from the distance and
the pace. That night he consulted an old man, who advised him to answer
the old wife’s challenge also in words, and no evil would result from
his walk. Next day the hag, as before, was waiting for him at the door,
and said, “Step it out, Ewen” (_Ceum ann, Eoghain!_) He answered: “A
step for your step, and a step additional, old woman!” (_Ceum air do
cheum, agus ceum a bharrachd, a chailleach!_) This day they walked to
Patrickson Sound (_Caolas ’ic Phadruig_), as the ferry across Loch Leven
at Balachulish is called, a distance of 75 miles. Ewen got into the ferry
boat first, and pushed off from the shore. When the hag saw herself about
to lose him, she called out, “My sincere wishes are yours, Ewen” (_Mo
dhùrachd dhut fhéin, Eoghain!_) He replied: “Your sincere wishes be upon
your own sides, and on yonder grey stone, old wife!” (_Rùn do chridh’ air
do chliathaich ’s air a chloich ghlais ud thall, a chailleach_). The old
wife looked at the grey stone, and it split in two, as may still be seen
by any one passing that way.
Another version of the parting of Ewen and the Old Wife is, that the pair
came to Ewen’s foster-mother’s house. That night his foster-mother put
him to sleep on a hard deal board, and placed a crock of butter[43] to
his feet, while she put the old wife in a soft and luxurious bed. In the
morning Ewen was as fresh as a lark, his feet had soaked in the whole of
the butter during the night, but the Carlin wife was dead!
Another, and probably older, tale of the origin of the saying, is of a
wilder cast. Ewen was a jolly young fellow (_óganach grinn_) who went to
a wedding. He had a switch in his hand, with which, when the ceremony was
being performed in the church, he tapped a skull in the church window,
saying to it every word the minister said to the couple marrying. That
night on going to bed he was seized by a shivering cold, and an old
woman (_cailleach_) came and claimed him as her husband. She said, they
were married as surely as the couple in church that day. She came night
after night, and Ewen, whose thoughtless fun had turned to such terrible
earnestness, could not get rid of her, do what he could. An old man,
whom he consulted, said, there was a bad chance of her going away while
he lived, but that he ought to consult Michael Scott. Michael said, “I
will separate you from her, but perhaps you will not live after. Here is
a book, which you are to take to bed with you, and when she goes away,
open the book, and follow her wherever she goes. While the book is open,
she cannot leave you by walking. Before you come back, you will see the
bed prepared for me, and will be able to tell me what it is like.” The
hag went to hell, and Ewen followed.[44] Several subordinate demons came
first to the door, but Ewen demanded an interview with their chief. He
then requested, that the old wife should be bound with chains, to keep
her always in her infernal abode. This was done, but when he offered
to go away, she followed. She was then put below a caldron (_fo bhial
coire_) on the bed of brimstone prepared for Michael Scott, and she is
probably there still. Ewen came back to tell Michael, that his bed was
ready, and did not live long after his terrible adventure.
THE BLACK WALKER OF THE FORD.
Rather more than a century ago,[45] there lived at Amhulaich, in
Rannoch, a miller, much addicted to the use of tobacco, and when unable
to get it, was like most smokers very short and quick in the temper.
On one occasion, he ran out of tobacco, and sent for a supply by some
Lochaber men, who were passing through Rannoch on their way to Perth.
The mill-stream ran close to his house, and he had to cross it on
stepping stones in going to and from the mill. As he was returning home
one evening in the dusk, and was about to enter the house, he heard the
sound of footsteps coming to the ford. He called out, who is there? but
received no answer. Being crusty for want of tobacco, and thinking it
might be the Lochaber men returning, he called out a second time, very
peremptorily and impatiently. He still received no answer. He called out
a third time, turning down to the ford, and saying aloud, that, whether
it was man or devil, he would make it answer. The thing then spoke, and
said it (or he) was the Black Walker of the Ford (_Coisiche du beul an
àth_). What further passed between the two never transpired, but every
evening after that, for a year or more, the miller left home at dusk,
crossed the stream, and went to a small clump of trees about half a
mile away, whence loud cries and yells were heard during the night.
Before daybreak he came home, with his knife or dirk covered with blood.
When examined by the light, the blood proved to be merely earth. An
attempt was made on one occasion by some young men to follow him to the
rendezvous, but he became aware in some mysterious way of the attempt,
and turning back warned them not to follow. It was enough, he said, for
himself to go, without their perilling their souls. On the last night of
his going to meet the Black Walker, such terrific outcries were heard
from the clump of trees, that the people of the neighbouring villages,
Amhulaich and Cragganoür, came to the doors to listen. It was a winter
night, and next morning marks of a foot or knee were found in the snow,
along with the miller’s own footsteps, as if something had been engaged
in a struggle with him. Some years after this, a man, who had been away
in America, entered Amhulaich Mill. The miller at the time was dressing
the mill-stone, and whenever he observed the American, threw at him the
pick he had in his hand, and nearly killed another, who was standing
near. He told him never to appear in his presence again, that he had
had enough of him. Many surmised it was this man, who had troubled him
before, but whether it was or not never appeared.
STROWAN, ATHOLE.
Within the present century, a native of Glen Erochty (_Gleann
Eireachdaidh_), the valley that leads from Athole to Rannoch, was
similarly afflicted. Every evening he went to meet the evil spirit, at
a small circle of trees, on the top of the hill above the clachan of
Strowan. The last occasion of his doing so, was after the shinty playing
on New-Year’s day. He took with him a large stick, which had been cut
that same day in the wood, and had served one of the players for a
shinty stick. Next day this stick was found at the scene of the nightly
meetings, twisted like a withe, while all round within a circle the snow
was trampled, as if there had been a struggle. There were marks of a
man’s foot and of a knee.
THE UNEARTHLY WHISTLE.
About seventy years ago, a young man, a native of the village of Cornaig,
in Tiree, went in the evening to another village, _Cruaidh-ghortain_,
about two miles distant. When he reached it, he reclined on a bed,
and being tired fell fast asleep. He awoke with a start, and thinking
from the clearness of the night (it was full moon) daylight had come,
hurried off home. His way lay across a desolate moor, called the Yellow
Ridge (_Druim Buidhe_), and when halfway he heard a loud whistle behind
him, but in a different direction from that in which he had come, at a
distance, as he thought, of above a mile. The whistle was so unearthly
loud, he thought every person in the island must have heard it. He
hurried on, and when opposite the Sharp-pointed Rock (_An Carragh
biorach_) he heard the whistle again, as if at the place where he himself
had been when he heard it first. The whistle was so clear and loud,
that it sent a shiver through his very marrow. With a beating heart he
quickened his pace, and when at the gateway adjoining the village he
belonged to, he heard the whistle at the Pointed Rock. He here made off
the road, and managed to reach home before being overtaken. He rushed
into the barn, where he usually slept, and, after one look towards the
door at his pursuer, buried himself below a pile of corn. His brother
was in a bed in the same barn asleep. His father was in the house, and
three times, with an interval between each call, heard a voice at the
door saying, “Are you asleep? Will you not go to look at your son? He is
in danger of his life, and in risk of all he is worth” (_an geall na’s
fhiach e_). Each call became more importunate, and at last the old man
rose and went to the barn. After a search he found his son below a pile
of sheaves, and nearly dead. The only account the young man could give
was, that when he stood at the door, he could see the sky between the
legs of his pursuer, who came to the door and said it was fortunate for
him he had reached shelter; and that he (the pursuer) was such a one who
had been killed in the Field of Birds (_Blàr nam Big-ein_) in the Moas, a
part of Tiree near hand.
In its main outline, this tale may be correct enough. A hideous nightmare
or terror had made the fatigued young man hide himself under the corn,
and things as strange have happened, in the history of nervous delusions,
as that he should have gone himself to the door of the dwelling house to
call his father.
THE BATTLE OF GAURA.
This was the battle in which Cairbre and Oscar, the son of Ossian,
were killed. It was fought in Ireland about the fifth century, and
from the poem or ballad, in which Ossian describes the battle and the
circumstances of his son’s death, and which is still extant in popular
tradition, has always been the most celebrated of Celtic battles.
Macpherson has worked up the popular accounts in the first Book of
Temora, but not very successfully.
One night a little man, of the name of Campbell, was going home from the
smithy, with the ploughshare and coulter on his shoulder, and in a narrow
glen encountered a gigantic figure, that stood with a foot resting on
each side of the valley. This figure asked him, “What is your name?” He
answered boldly (as became one of the clan), “Campbell.” It then asked,
“Were you at the Battle of Gaura?” He answered “Yes.” “Show me your hand,
then, that I may know if you were at the Battle of Gaura.” Instead of
his hand, Campbell held out the ploughshare and coulter, and the figure
grasped them so tightly, that they were welded together and had to be
taken back to the smithy, to be separated. “I see,” said the apparition,
“that you were at the Battle of Gaura, for your hand is pretty hard.”
Two men were during the night on their way, it is said, to steal sheep.
One beguiled the way by telling the other about the Battle of Gaura. Two
figures of immense size appeared, one on the top of each of two high
hills in the neighbourhood. The gigantic apparitions spoke to each
other, and one said, “Do you hear these men down there? I was the second
best hero (_ursainn chath_, lit. door-post of battle) at the Battle
of Gaura, and that man down there knows all about it better than I do
myself.”
THE BEAST OF ODAL PASS.
From Kyle-rhea (_Caol-Redhinn_), the narrowest part of the Sound of Skye,
the Pass of Odal stretches westward and forms one of the most striking
Pass views in the Highlands. It was through it, that the first public
road was made in Skye, about sixty years ago. At the time it was being
made, the Pass was haunted by “something” awful—the more awful that its
character was not distinctly known,—that enjoyed an evil reputation far
and wide as “The Beast of Odal Pass” (_Biasd Bealach Odail_). This thing,
whatever it was, did not always appear in the same shape. Sometimes
it bore the form of a man, sometimes of a man with only one leg; at
other times it appeared like a greyhound, or beast prowling about; and
sometimes it was heard uttering frightful shrieks and outcries, which
made the workmen leave their bothies in horror. It was only during the
night it was seen or heard. Travellers through the Pass at night were
often thrown down and hurt by it, and with difficulty made their way to
a place of safety. It ceased when a man was found dead at the roadside,
pierced with two wounds one on his side and one on his leg, with a hand
pressed on each wound. It was considered impossible these wounds could
have been inflicted by human agency.
_Luideag_, “THE RAG.”
At a small loch between Broadford and Sleat, in Skye, called “The Lakelet
of Black Trout” (_Lochan nan dubh bhreac_), thirty or forty years ago,
the figure of a young woman with a coat about her head was commonly to be
seen at night in the neighbourhood of and on the public road that passes
that way. She went by the name _Luideag_, _i.e._ the Rag, or slovenly
female. She did not answer when spoken to, and disappeared as silently
and mysteriously as she made her appearance. The place is lonely and far
from houses, and there was no conceivable reason why any one, much less
a female, should nightly frequent it. An excise-man passing the way once
spoke to _Luideag_, first in English and then in Gaelic, but she answered
not a word. A man was found lying dead on the road at the place, and she
never appeared afterwards.
_Lochan Doimeig._
On the skirts of Schiehallion, the steepest and one of the highest hills
in the kingdom, there is a small loch or tarn, near Crossmount, in Lower
Rannoch, the vicinity of which about 50 years ago was the scene of
strange terrors at night. The road leading over the shoulder of the hill
to Weem lay along the shores of this lake, and, where it was crossed
by a small stream that falls into the loch, those who passed the way
after dark were scared by strange sights. After crossing the ford the
traveller was accompanied for about twenty yards by a dog, a he-goat, a
dark moving mass, or some other object, which, from the unaccountable
manner of its appearance and disappearance, could not be deemed earthly.
A native of Kilchonan, in Rannoch, who had been for some time in the
south as a gardener, came on a visit to his friends, and had to pass in
the neighbourhood of the loch. It was ascertained that at Cashieville
(_Cois-a-bhile_), where he left the strath of the Tay to cross the skirts
of Schiehallion, he had taken a drink of porter. It was fourteen days
after before it was ascertained he never reached Kilchonan. A search
was instituted; men gathered from Appin and Athole and Rannoch, and the
whole country round about, and continued the search for three or four
days, even as far as Glenlyon, but without success. One of the exploring
parties when above Crossmount was met by a woman, who advised them to
search round _Lochan Doimeig_, for she had dreamt last night she was
cutting rushes there. Soon after a man met them, who gave them the same
advice, and said he had had the same dream. On going round the loch
they found the dead gardener lying on a green mound on the brink of the
stream, already mentioned as crossing the road, in the attitude in which
he had stretched himself to take a drink.
RETURN OF THE DEAD.
A former minister of East-side, Skye, was in his lifetime addicted to
visiting his cattle fold. His whole heart was given to his herds, and
after his death his ghost was to be seen revisiting his former haunts. An
old man undertook to meet and lay the ghost. The two met and saluted each
other in the usual manner. When shaking hands, however, the man, instead
of his hand, offered the ploughshare. After that the ghost never came
back.
In the same neighbourhood, about thirty years ago, a man died suddenly.
His wife watched the cows in harvest soon after this, lest they should
leave the fank or enclosure, in which they were put at nights to keep
them from wandering into the crops. She had occasion one night to leave
her charge and go to a shop two miles away. On her return she went to
close a gap (_beàrn_) in the fold (_buaile_). She found there her late
husband, who told her not to be anxious, as he was watching in her stead.
Every night after this he was visible to anyone who chose to go and look
for him. He even came to the house to _ceilidh_, _i.e._ to while away
the time, a favourite recreation in the Highlands (λέσχη of the ancient
Greeks) of spending the evening, by gathering in a neighbour’s house
to listen to gossip and tales and idle talk. The dead man’s attentions
at last made the wife resolve to sell all she had and go to America.
On the day of the sale the cattle could not be gathered; they seemed
to be taken possession of by an undefinable terror, and the sale and
projected emigration had to be abandoned. A little bird hovering about
was evidently the cause of the wildness of the cattle. After this day the
visits of the dead man ceased.
DONALD GORM’S GHOST.
In 1616 a batch of West Highland and Island chiefs were brought before
the Privy Council in Edinburgh, and bound over in restrictions as to
the quantity of wine they were respectively to use in their houses.
The narrative upon which the Privy Council proceeded is quoted by
Gregory (_History of the Western Highlands_, p. 395): “The great and
extraordinary excesse in drinking of wyne, commonlie usit among the
commonis and tenantis of the Yllis is not only ane occasioun of the
beastlie and barbarous cruelties and inhumanities that fallis oute
amongis thame, to the offens and displeasour of God, and contempt of law
and justice; but that it drawis numberis of thame to miserable necessitie
and povartie, sua they are constrainit, quhen they want from their awne,
to take from their nichtbours.”[46] Among these lawless and reckless
chiefs was Donald Gorm Mor (Big Blue Donald), of Sleat, in Skye, the then
Lord Macdonald of the Isles. He was prevented from attending the Council
by sickness, but ratified all their proceedings. “He named Duntulm, a
castle of his family in Trouterness (in Skye), as his residence; and six
household gentlemen and an annual consumption of four tun of wine was
allowed him.” He died that same year, and was succeeded by his nephew,
Donald Gorm Og (Young Blue Donald). So far history; the following
tradition is well known in Skye:
Some family document went amissing, and its loss was likely to be of
serious consequence to young Donald Gorm. At the same time the figures
of Donald Gorm Mor and two companions were repeatedly seen on the road
leading to Duntulm Castle. Efforts were made to accost them, but the
three figures passed those who met them in some mysterious manner without
being noticed, and without giving any opportunity of being accosted. They
were then seen to enter the castle. An old man of the neighbourhood
advised that seven staves of pine (_gathannan caol giuthais_), according
to others seven spindles of oak (_seachd dealgun daraich_), with fire
at their points, should be taken, and entry be made into the room in
which the ghosts each day took up their quarters. This was done, and the
phantoms, Donald Gorm Mor and his two companions, were found drinking. To
give confidence to the intruders, that they might hear his tale, Donald
said:
“I was in Edinburgh last night,
I am in my own mansion to-night,
And worth a mote in the sunbeam
I have not in me of strength.”[47]
He then told where the lost document was to be found, and disappeared,
saying:
“If it were not the slender lances of pine,
This would be to thy hurt, Young Donald Gorm.”[48]
TAIBHSE CHOIMHLIG.
Peter Brown, at Dun Crosg, in Glen Lochy, hid a ploughshare (_coltair_),
and died without telling where. In consequence his ghost long haunted a
waterfall in the neighbourhood (_Eas Choimhlig_), but no one had the
courage to speak to it and ascertain the cause of its unrest. In every
settled community, the ploughshare is of greater value, though less
glory is attached to it than the sword or any other weapon, and in the
Highlands, the same terrors were attached to the hiding of so useful an
instrument, which afterwards, and in a more commercial state of society,
were believed to follow the secreting of gold. The unhappy man who hid
it, and died without revealing his secret, could not rest in his grave.
Peter Brown’s ghost was commonly seen as a roebuck (_boc-earba_), that
followed people passing the ravine of Coilig after dark, but also as
a horse, dog, man, etc., and disappeared only about forty years ago.
A weaver had the courage to meet it, and had a long talk with it. He
was told what would happen to his family, and that his daughter, whose
marriage was then spoken of, would never marry. When he returned home he
took to his bed and never rose. There is now a bridge where the ford was
formerly, and it was at the top of the bank above the ford the ghost was
seen. It once fought a strong man, and the marks of the conflict long
remained on the ground and trees.
KINGAIRLOCH, ARGYLESHIRE.
A skiff was upset at Maodlach, the most rugged part of the coast of this
rugged district. Of the two men who formed its crew, one was saved by
clinging to the boat, but the other, a powerful swimmer, in trying to
swim ashore, was drowned close to land. He omitted to put off his shoes
and got entangled in the seaweed. Some time after his brother was coming
from the smithy late at night along the shore, carrying an iron bolt on
his shoulder. When opposite the place where his brother’s body had been
found, this man was joined by a figure which, it was said, resembled a
he-goat. He had at the time two dogs along with him, one of which cowered
about his feet, but the other, a bitch, leapt up at his throat, and he
had again and again to strike it down with the bolt he carried on his
shoulder. The figure spoke, but it never clearly transpired what it said.
It gave messages to deliver to former associates, especially to one
thoughtless individual, warning him to amend in time. When the brother
reached a house and came to the light, he fainted away.
FLADDA-CHUAIN.
In this islet, which lies on the east coast of Skye, there lived
at one time a native of Mull and his wife. In the place there is a
burying-ground called “The Monks’ burial-ground” (_Cladh a Mhanaich_),
the existence of which adds much to the feelings of awe natural to so
lonely a place—a solitary islet several miles from land in a stormy sea.
A dead body came on the shore, and was buried, after being stripped
of its clothes. After this the dead man came to the hut in which the
Mull man stayed regularly at midnight, and sat warming himself at the
fire which was left burning all night on the floor. As he bent over the
fire, and held his feet and his hands to it, he said, “I will softly
warm myself, I will softly warm myself” (_Ni mi mo theóghadh ’s mo
theóghadh_), and then add,
“Wife, who took my trousers off,
And my nice black shoes from me,
And the shirt my sister gave me,—
To it, to it, cold feet of mine,
Many a sea you’ve traversed.”[49]
After the Mull man left the place, a party of fishermen, being in the
neighbourhood, sent one of their number ashore, Red-headed Donald
(_Dòmhnull Ruadh_) to prepare dinner for them in the bothy. As Donald
was bending down to kindle a fire, something struck him violently on the
skull and knocked him flat. Every time he attempted to lift his head the
thing knocked him on the skull again. He felt sure it must be the ghost
which warmed itself at the Mull-man’s fire, the _Teóghan_ of which his
companions had warned him. Finding it would not allow him to rise, he
lay on his back as he had been knocked down, and, not daring to look at
his assaulter, wriggled himself along the floor till he got hold of a
post, up which he clambered, to hide himself among the rafters. When his
companions arrived the ghost was found to be a pet ram, addicted, like
its kind, to butting.
HAUNTED HOUSES.
Some half a century ago or more a native of Rannoch resided at Bonskeid
(_Bonn-sgaod_) in the neighbouring parish of Blair Athole. He was married
to a Badenoch woman, who had brought servants with her from her own
country. In fact the only servants about the house were from Badenoch.
In obedience to the law, which ascribes that which is mysterious to that
which is remote, Badenoch was at that time esteemed a great place for
witchcraft and things “uncanny.” A series of unaccountable noises and
appearances began about the house in Bonskeid. Turnips and peats, thrown
by unseen hands, flew about the house, lights were blown out, furniture
was mysteriously moved, bedclothes were pulled off, and no one could be
sure that an article would be found by him where he had left it. In all
this there was no appearance of mortal agency, and the whole business was
at once assumed to be the work of evil spirits. A friend from Rannoch,
who had been on a visit to the house, declared solemnly (and he was a
God-fearing, trustworthy man) that he himself heard the spinning-wheel
coming down stairs, and saw it falling in pieces on the floor of the room
in which he and the family were sitting, without any visible agency, and
without any part of it being broken or injured. He put it together again,
and with his own hands carried it upstairs and left it in its original
place. He had not sat long after coming down when the wheel again came in
the same mysterious manner, and fell in pieces on the floor. On another
occasion, as he stood in the byre, a turnip came and knocked the candle
out of his hand. To his certain knowledge there was no one in the byre
who could have thrown it. These flying turnips came sometimes as if they
had been hurled through the wall. The unhappy man, in whose house this
occurred, endured the persecution for more than a year, and was sadly
broken in health and spirits by the trouble. One day as he stood on the
hearth-stone, warming the back of his feet to the fire, the hearth-stone
began to move. A Badenoch dark hussy (_Caileag dhubh_) was at the time
standing by, with her elbow rested on the kitchen ‘dresser,’ and her chin
on her hand. He observed her smiling, and it struck him she was at the
bottom of all this bedevilment. He turned her and all the rest of the
Badenoch servants away, and no further disturbance took place.
About twenty years ago, a house in Kilmoluag, Tiree, was the scene of
similar disturbances. With one or two exceptions, all the people of the
island believed them to be produced by some supernatural evil agency, and
all the superstition that with the spread of education had been quietly
dying out was revived in renewed vigour. No one could deny the agency
of spirits when the evidence was so clear. The annoyance began by the
trickling of dirty water, mixed with sand, from the roof. The burning
peats were found among the bedclothes, and pebbles in bowls of milk,
where no peats or pebbles ought to be; linen was lifted mysteriously from
the washing, and found in another room; articles of furniture were moved
without being touched by visible hands, and stones flew about the house.
The disturbances did not occur during the day, nor when a large company
assembled at the house. Several went to lay the ghost, and a good deal of
powder and shot was wasted by persons of undoubted courage in firing in
the air about the house. The annoyance became so bad, and the advice of
“wise people” so positive, that the family removed to another house, in
the hope the evil would not follow. The removal, however, had no effect,
and it is privately rumoured, the disturbances ceased only when some
money that had gone amissing was restored. The cause was never clearly
ascertained, but there is reason to suspect it was caused, as all similar
disturbances are, by some one suborned for the purpose and shielded from
suspicion by a pretended simplicity and terror.
Numerous similar cases, which have occurred in the Highlands,
might be instanced. Instances occurring in England, from that of
Woodstock downwards, and in the south of Scotland, differ only as
the circumstances of the countries do. They all seem to have the same
characteristic, the tricks are such as it is perfectly possible for human
agency to perform, but it is believed there is no human being about the
place who does them. Stones come flying through the windows, as if they
were thrown from the sky, and are found lying on the floor; the leg of
a wheelbarrow startles two persons engaged within the house in earnest
conversation, by coming flying between them through the window, and
striking the opposite wall with violence; a peat strikes the incredulous
stranger between the shoulders, and he goes home a believer, etc. These
cantrips are exaggerated by fear and rumour, till at last the devil is
believed to be unusually busy in the locality. Once this belief becomes
popular, the delusion is easily carried on.
_Bòcain_, GOBLINS.
The number of these, resembling _Luideag_, seen about fords or bridges,
and near the public road in lonely places, as has been already said, are
numberless. Every unusual sight and sound, in the locality which has the
name of being haunted, becomes a goblin to the timorous, and one of the
most tiresome forms of ghost stories is, how the narrator was nearly
frightened out of his wits (the quantity of which is not mentioned) by a
horse standing with outstretched neck, and its head towards him, which he
mistook for a gigantic human figure, by a white he-goat in the face of
a rock, the plaintive cries of an owl, etc., etc. Most ghosts, however,
are dependent not so much on the imagination of the individual spectator
as on accumulated rumours, and their explanation is to be sought in
men’s love of the marvellous and tendency to exaggeration. On the high
road leading from the wood of Nant (_Coill’ an Eannd_) to Kilchrenan on
Lochaweside, two or three summers ago, the traveller was met by a dark
shadow, which passed him without his knowing how. On looking after him,
he again saw the shadow, but this time moving away, and a little man in
its centre, growing less as the shadow moved off. The little man was
known as “_Bodach beag Chill-a-Chreunain_.”
About the same time a ghost haunted the neighbourhood of Inveraray, and
caused great annoyance to the post and others travelling late. A man
had a tussle with a ghost at _Uchdan a Bhiorain dui_ in Appin, and said
it felt in his arms like a bag of wool. Phantom men were to be seen at
_Uchdan na Dubhaig_ above Balachulish; at _Ath-flèodair_, a ford near
Loch Maddy in Uist, ‘things’ are perpetually seen, and it takes a very
courageous man to go from Portree home to Braes, in Skye, after dark. A
mile above the manse, where the road is most lonely, and near the top of
a gradual ascent, sounds of throttling are heard and dark moving objects
are seen.
In the island of Coll, the top of the ascent above Grisipol had at one
time an evil reputation as a haunted spot. At the summit of the pass,
there is a white round rock called _Cnoc Stoirr_. One night a man, on his
way to the west end of Coll, reached the place about midnight, and was
joined by a man on horseback. The rider said not a word, and accompanied
him for near three miles to the “Round House,” as a house, built for
the accommodation of the farm-servants of Breacacha Castle was called.
Whenever he attempted to enter any of the houses on the way, the silent
horseman came between him and the house and prevented him. When they came
to the Round House, the cock crew, and the horseman disappeared over the
gate in a flame of fire. The man was lifted into the house, pouring with
sweat, and going off in fainting fits.
In Glen Lyon, in Perthshire, there is a village called _Caisle_, and near
it a ford (now a bridge) and ravine called _Eas a Chaisle_. In the early
part of the present century, clods and stones were thrown by unseen hands
at parties crossing this ford at night. At last, no one would venture to
cross. A harum-scarum gentleman of the neighbourhood, popularly looked
upon as an unbeliever and a man without fear of God or man, crossed one
night, and the clods as usual began to fly about him. He cried out,
“In the name of God I defy all from the pit”; and on his saying this a
mysterious sound passed away up the ravine, and clod-throwing at the
place was never afterwards heard of.
The district, now forming the parishes of Kilmartin and Kilmichael,
at the west end of the Crinan Canal, is known in the neighbourhood as
Argyle (_Earra-ghaidheal_), probably from a Celtic colony from Ireland
having settled there first. The people, for instance, of Loch Aweside say
of a person going down past Ford, that he is going down to Argyle. In
course of time the name has been extended to the county. The public road
leading through the district was once infested by a ghost, which caused
considerable terror to the inhabitants. A person was got to lay it. He
met the ghost and exorcised it in the name of Peter and Paul and John and
all the most powerful saints, but it never moved. At last he called out
peremptorily, “In the name of the Duke of Argyle, I tell you to get out
of there immediately.” The ghost disappeared at once, and was never seen
again.