O 's truagh an sgeula tha 'n diugh ri fheutainn,Thug gal air ceudan a measg an t-sluaigh,Mu Eachainn gleusta 'bha fearail, feumail,Gun da ghlac an t-eug thu a threun-laoich chruaidh:'S mor bron do Chinnidh, mar eoin na tuinneTha 'n cronan duilich 's an ullaidh uath'S bho nach duisg an gair thu, 's nach cluinn thu 'n gailich,Se chlaoidh do chairdean do bhas cho luath.Tha do chairdean cianal, tha bron da'lionadh,Tha 'n inntinn pianail bho n' ghlac thu 'm bas,'S iad a ghnath fuidh thiorachd 's nach faigh iad sgial ort,Ach thu bhi iosal an ciste chlarBu tu ceann na riaghailt 'us lamh na fialachd,A sheoid gun fhiaradh, gun ghiamh gun sgath,'Sa nis bho 'n thriall thu, 's sinn lan dha d' iargan,'S nach eil 's na criochan fear a lionas d' ait.Bha d' aite miaghail 's gach cas an iarrt' thu,A reir mo sgiala bu teirc do luach:Bha thu pairteach, briathrach, ri ard 's ri iosal,Gun chàs gun dioghaltas air an tuath.Bha foghlum Iarl' agad 's ciall fear riaghlaidhBu mhor an diobhail nach da liath do ghruag,'S ann a bharc an t-aog ort mas d' thainig aois ort,A ghnuis bha faoilteach air chaochladh snuaidh.Bha do shnuadh cho aillidh 's nach fhaodainn s' aireamh,Mar ròs a gharaidh ri maduinn dhriuchd,Bu chuachach, faineach, do ghruag an caradh—Mar theudan clarsaich an' inneal ciuilDo ghruaidh dhearg dhathte, do shuil mar dhearcag,Fuidh ghnuis na maise bu tapaidh sùrdRasg aotram, geanach, bho 'm b'fhaoilteach sealladhBeul muirneach tairis, 's deud thana dhluth.O! 's dluth bha buaidhean a stri mu'n cuairt duit,Cha b' eol dhomh suairceas nach robh 'do chrèBha thu ciallach, narach, 's tu briathrach, pairteach,'S tu rianail, daimheil, ri d' chairdean fhein:Bu tu firean, fallain, bha rioghail, geanach,'Sa leoghann tapaidh bu ghlaine beus;Bhiodh min 'us gairg' air, bhiodh sith 'us fearg air,Nuair chit' air falbh e bhiodh colg na cheum.Se do cheum bu bhrisge 's bu shubailt iosgaid,Bha moran ghibhtean ri d' leasraidh fuaight.Bu tu glas nan Gaidheal, bho mhuir gu braigheGu crioch Chinntaile 's na tha bho thuath.O! 's lionmhor oigfhear tha 'n diugh gu bronachA fasgadh dhorn, 'us ruith-dheoir le ghruaidh,'Bhiodh dana, sgaiteach, gun sgath gun ghealtachd,Na 'm bu namhaid pears' bheireadh Eachainn bh' uainn.Bha thu mor an onair, bu mhor do mholadh,Bu mhor do shonas, 's tu gun dolaidh gibht'Bu mhor a b'fhiach thu, bu mhor do riaghailt,Bu mhor do mhiagh ann an ciall 's an tuigs',Bu mhor do churam, bu mhor do chuisean,Bu mhor do chliu ann an cuirt 'sa meas,Bu mhor do stata, 's bu mhor do nadur,'S cha mhor nach d'fhag thu na Gaidheil brist'.O! 's priseil, laidir, a ghibhte 'dh-fhag sinn—'S mios'da Ghaeltachd bàs an t-seoid,Tha Mhachair tursach bho n' chaidh an uir ort,'S tu dh-fhuasgladh cuis do gach cuirt mu bhord,Bha 'Ghalldachd deurach ri cainnt ma d' dheighinn,Gu ruig Dun-eidin nan steud 's nan cleoc,'S cha ghabhainn gealtachd, air son a chantuinn,Gur call do Bhreatuinn nach eil thu beo.'S tu chraobh a b'aillidh bha 'n tus a gharaidh'S i ùr a fas ann fuidh bhlath 's fuidh dhos,O! 's truagh a dh-fhag thu ma thuath na GaidheilMar uain gun mhathair ni'n sgath ri frois,'S tu b'urr' an tearnadh bho chunnart gabhaidh,'S an curaidh laidir, chuireadh spairn na tost,Tha 'n tuath gu craiteach, 's na h-uaislean càsai,'S bho 'n chaidh am fàd ort 's truagh gair nam bochd.
O 's truagh an sgeula tha 'n diugh ri fheutainn,Thug gal air ceudan a measg an t-sluaigh,Mu Eachainn gleusta 'bha fearail, feumail,Gun da ghlac an t-eug thu a threun-laoich chruaidh:'S mor bron do Chinnidh, mar eoin na tuinneTha 'n cronan duilich 's an ullaidh uath'S bho nach duisg an gair thu, 's nach cluinn thu 'n gailich,Se chlaoidh do chairdean do bhas cho luath.
Tha do chairdean cianal, tha bron da'lionadh,Tha 'n inntinn pianail bho n' ghlac thu 'm bas,'S iad a ghnath fuidh thiorachd 's nach faigh iad sgial ort,Ach thu bhi iosal an ciste chlarBu tu ceann na riaghailt 'us lamh na fialachd,A sheoid gun fhiaradh, gun ghiamh gun sgath,'Sa nis bho 'n thriall thu, 's sinn lan dha d' iargan,'S nach eil 's na criochan fear a lionas d' ait.
Bha d' aite miaghail 's gach cas an iarrt' thu,A reir mo sgiala bu teirc do luach:Bha thu pairteach, briathrach, ri ard 's ri iosal,Gun chàs gun dioghaltas air an tuath.Bha foghlum Iarl' agad 's ciall fear riaghlaidhBu mhor an diobhail nach da liath do ghruag,'S ann a bharc an t-aog ort mas d' thainig aois ort,A ghnuis bha faoilteach air chaochladh snuaidh.
Bha do shnuadh cho aillidh 's nach fhaodainn s' aireamh,Mar ròs a gharaidh ri maduinn dhriuchd,Bu chuachach, faineach, do ghruag an caradh—Mar theudan clarsaich an' inneal ciuilDo ghruaidh dhearg dhathte, do shuil mar dhearcag,Fuidh ghnuis na maise bu tapaidh sùrdRasg aotram, geanach, bho 'm b'fhaoilteach sealladhBeul muirneach tairis, 's deud thana dhluth.
O! 's dluth bha buaidhean a stri mu'n cuairt duit,Cha b' eol dhomh suairceas nach robh 'do chrèBha thu ciallach, narach, 's tu briathrach, pairteach,'S tu rianail, daimheil, ri d' chairdean fhein:Bu tu firean, fallain, bha rioghail, geanach,'Sa leoghann tapaidh bu ghlaine beus;Bhiodh min 'us gairg' air, bhiodh sith 'us fearg air,Nuair chit' air falbh e bhiodh colg na cheum.
Se do cheum bu bhrisge 's bu shubailt iosgaid,Bha moran ghibhtean ri d' leasraidh fuaight.Bu tu glas nan Gaidheal, bho mhuir gu braigheGu crioch Chinntaile 's na tha bho thuath.O! 's lionmhor oigfhear tha 'n diugh gu bronachA fasgadh dhorn, 'us ruith-dheoir le ghruaidh,'Bhiodh dana, sgaiteach, gun sgath gun ghealtachd,Na 'm bu namhaid pears' bheireadh Eachainn bh' uainn.
Bha thu mor an onair, bu mhor do mholadh,Bu mhor do shonas, 's tu gun dolaidh gibht'Bu mhor a b'fhiach thu, bu mhor do riaghailt,Bu mhor do mhiagh ann an ciall 's an tuigs',Bu mhor do churam, bu mhor do chuisean,Bu mhor do chliu ann an cuirt 'sa meas,Bu mhor do stata, 's bu mhor do nadur,'S cha mhor nach d'fhag thu na Gaidheil brist'.
O! 's priseil, laidir, a ghibhte 'dh-fhag sinn—'S mios'da Ghaeltachd bàs an t-seoid,Tha Mhachair tursach bho n' chaidh an uir ort,'S tu dh-fhuasgladh cuis do gach cuirt mu bhord,Bha 'Ghalldachd deurach ri cainnt ma d' dheighinn,Gu ruig Dun-eidin nan steud 's nan cleoc,'S cha ghabhainn gealtachd, air son a chantuinn,Gur call do Bhreatuinn nach eil thu beo.
'S tu chraobh a b'aillidh bha 'n tus a gharaidh'S i ùr a fas ann fuidh bhlath 's fuidh dhos,O! 's truagh a dh-fhag thu ma thuath na GaidheilMar uain gun mhathair ni'n sgath ri frois,'S tu b'urr' an tearnadh bho chunnart gabhaidh,'S an curaidh laidir, chuireadh spairn na tost,Tha 'n tuath gu craiteach, 's na h-uaislean càsai,'S bho 'n chaidh am fàd ort 's truagh gair nam bochd.
"Ma ta 's math sibh fhein Alastair Bhuidhe; 's grinn comhnard a bhardachd a th'air a mharbhrainn, ach cha 'n eil i dad nas fhearr na thoill brod a Ghaidheil agus am fior dhuin' uasal dha'n d'rinn sibh i," arsa Ruairidh Mor.(Well done yourself,Alastair Buidhe, the composition of the Elegy is beautifully elegant and even, but not any better than the memory of the best of Highlanders and the truest of gentlemen, to whom you composed it, deserved, said Big Rory). This was the general verdict of the circle.
Norman was now called upon to fulfil his part of the arrangement, which he promptly did by giving the Legend, of which the following is a translation:—
Theancient Chapel of Cilliechriost, in the Parish of Urray, in Ross, was the scene of one of the bloodiest acts of ferocity and revenge that history has recorded. The original building has long since disappeared, but the lonely and beautifully situated burying-ground is still in use. The tragedy originated in the many quarrels which arose between the two chiefs of the North Highlands—Mackenzie of Kintail and Macdonald of Glengarry. As usual, the dispute was regarding land, but it were not easy to arrive at the degree of blame to which each party was entitled, enough that there was bad blood between these two paladins of the north. Of course, the quarrel was not allowed to go to sleep for lack of action on the part of their friends and clansmen. The Macdonalds having made several raids on the Mackenzie country, the Mackenzies retaliated by the spoiling of Morar with a large and overwhelming force. The Macdonalds, taking advantage of Kenneth Mackenzie's visit to Mull with the view to influence Maclean to induce the former to peace, once more committed great devastation in the Mackenzie country, under the leadership of Glengarry's son Angus. From Kintail and Lochalsh the clan of the Mackenzies gathered fast, but too late to prevent Macdonald from escaping to sea with his boats loaded with the foray. A portion of the Mackenzies ran to Eilean-donan, while another portion sped to the narrow strait of the Kyle between Skye and the mainland, through which the Macdonalds, on their return, of necessity, must pass. At Eilean-donan Lady Mackenzie furnished them with two boats, one ten-oared and one four-oared, also with arrows and ammunition. Though without their chief, the Mackenzies sallied forth, and rowing towards Kyleakin, lay in wait for the approach of the Macdonalds. The first of the Glengarry boats they allowed to pass unchallenged, but the second, which was the thirty-two-oared galley of the chief was furiously attacked. The unprepared Macdonalds rushing to the side of the heavily loaded boat, swamped the craft, and were all thrown into the sea, where they were despatched in large numbers, and those who escaped to the land were destroyed "by the Kintail men, who killed them likesealchagan."[A]The body of young Glengarry was secured and buried in the very door-way of the Kirk of Kintail, that the Mackenzies might trample over it whenever they went to church. Time passed on, DonaldGruamach, the oldchief, died ere he could mature matters for adequate retaliation of the Kyle tragedy and the loss of his son Angus. The chief of the clan was an infant in whom the feelings of revenge could not be worked out by action; but there was one, his cousin, who was the Captain or Leader in whom the bitterest thoughts exercised their fullest sway. It seems now impossible that such acts could have occurred, and it gives one a startling idea of the state of the country then, when such a terrible instance of private vengeance could have been carried out so recent as the beginning of the seventeenth century, without any notice being taken of it, even, in those days of general blood and rapine. Notwithstanding the hideousness of sacrilege and murder, which, certainly, in magnitude of atrocity, was scarcely ever equalled, there are many living, even in the immediate neighbourhood, who are ignorant of the cause of the act. Macranuil of Lundi, captain of the clan, whose personal prowess was only equalled by his intense ferocity, made many incursions into the Mackenzie country, sweeping away their cattle, and otherwise doing them serious injury; but these were but preludes to that sanguinary act on which his soul gloated, and by which he hoped effectually to avenge the loss of influence and property of which his clan were deprived by the Mackenzies, and more particularly wash out the records of death of his chief and clansmen at Kyleakin. In order to form his plans more effectually he wandered for some time as a mendicant among the Mackenzies in order the more successfully to fix on the best means and spot for his revenge. A solitary life offered up to expiate the manes of his relatives was not sufficient in his estimation, but the life's blood of such a number of his bitterest foemen, and an act at which the country should stand aghast was absolutely necessary. Returning home he gathered together a number of the most desperate of his clan, and by a forced march across the hills arrived at the Church of Cilliechriost on a Sunday forenoon, when it was filled by a crowd of worshippers of the clan Mackenzie. Without a moments delay, without a single pang of remorse, and while the song of praise ascended to heaven from fathers, mothers, and children, he surrounded the church with his band, and with lighted torches set fire to the roof. The building was thatched, and while a gentle breeze from the east fanned the fire, the song of praise, mingled with the crackling of the flames, until the imprisoned congregation, becoming conscious of their situation, rushed to the doors and windows, where they were met by a double row of bristling swords. Now, indeed, arose the wild wail of despair, the shrieks of women, the infuriated cries of men, and the helpless screaming of children, these mingled with the roaring of the flames appalled even the Macdonalds, but not so Allan Dubh. "Thrust them back into the flames" cried he, "for he that suffers ought to escape alive from Cilliechriost shall be branded as a traitor to his clan"; and they were thrust back or mercilessly hewn down within the narrow porch, until the dead bodies piled on each other opposed an unsurmountable barrier to the living. Anxious for the preservation of their young children, the scorching mothers threw them from the windows in the vain hope that the feelings of parents awakened in the breasts of the Macdonalds would induce them to spare them, but not so. At the command of Allan of Lundi they were received on the points of the broadswordsof men in whose breasts mercy had no place. It was a wild and fearful sight only witnessed by a wild and fearful race. During the tragedy they listened with delight to the piper of the band, who marching round the burning pile, played to drown the screams of the victims, an extempore pibroch, which has ever since been distinguished as the war tune of Glengarry under the title of "Cilliechriost." The flaming roof fell upon the burning victims, soon the screams ceased to be heard, a column of smoke and flame leapt into the air, the pibroch ceased, the last smothered groan of existence ascended into the still sky of that Sabbath morning, whispering as it died away that the agonies of the congregation were over.
East, west, north, and south looked Allan Dubh Macranuil. Not a living soul met his eye. The fire he kindled had destroyed, like the spirit of desolation. Not a sound met his ear, and his own tiger soul sunk within him in dismay. The Parish of Cilliechriost seemed swept of every living thing. The fearful silence that prevailed, in a quarter lately so thickly peopled, struck his followers with dread; for they had given in one hour the inhabitants of a whole parish, one terrible grave. The desert which they had created filled them with dismay, heightened into terror by the howls of the masterless sheep dogs, and they turned to fly. Worn out with the suddenness of their long march from Glengarry, and with their late fiendish exertions, on their return they sat down to rest on the green face of Glenconvinth, which route they took in order to reach Lundi through the centre of Glenmorriston by Urquhart. Before they fled from Cilliechriost Allan divided his party into two, one passing by Inverness and the other as already mentioned; but the Macdonalds were not allowed to escape, for the flames had roused the Mackenzies as effectually as if the fiery cross had been sent through their territories. A youthful leader, a cadet of the family of Seaforth, in an incredibly short time, found himself surrounded by a determined band of Mackenzies eager for the fray; these were also divided into two bodies, one commanded by Murdoch Mackenzie of Redcastle, proceeded by Inverness, to follow the pursuit along the southern side of Loch Ness; another headed by Alexander Mackenzie of Coul, struck across the country from Beauly, to follow the party of the Macdonalds who fled along the northern side of Loch Ness under their leader Allan Dubh Macranuil. The party that fled by Inverness were surprised by Redcastle in a public-house at Torbreck, three miles to the west of the town where they stopped to refresh themselves. The house was set on fire, and they all—thirty-seven in number—suffered the death which, in the earlier part of the day, they had so wantonly inflicted. The Mackenzies, under Coul, after a few hours' hard running, came up with the Macdonalds as they sought a brief repose on the hills towards the burn of Aultsigh. There the Macdonalds maintained an unequal conflict, but as guilt only brings faint hearts to its unfortunate votaries they turned and again fled precipitately to the burn. Many, however, missed the ford, and the channel being rough and rocky several fell under the swords of the victorious Mackenzies. The remainder, with all the speed they could make, held on for miles lighted by a splendid and cloudless moon, and when the rays of the morning burst upon them, Allan Dubh Macranuiland his party were seen ascending the southern ridge of Glen Urquhart with the Mackenzies close in the rear. Allan casting an eye behind him and observing the superior numbers and determination of his pursuers, called to his band to disperse in order to confuse his pursuers and so divert the chase from himself. This being done, he again set forward at the height of his speed, and after a long run, drew breath to reconnoitre, when, to his dismay, he found that the avenging Mackenzies were still upon his track in one unbroken mass. Again he divided his men and bent his flight towards the shore of Loch Ness, but still he saw the foe with redoubled vigour, bearing down upon him. Becoming fearfully alive to his position, he cried to his few remaining companions again to disperse, until they left him, one by one, and he was alone. Allan, who as a mark of superiority and as Captain of the Glengarry Macdonalds, always wore a red jacket, was easily distinguished from the rest of his clansmen, and the Mackenzies being anxious for his capture, thus easily singled him out as the object of their joint and undiverted pursuit. Perceiving the sword of vengeance ready to descend on his head he took a resolution as desperate in its conception as unequalled in its accomplishment. Taking a short course towards the fearful ravine of Aultsigh he divested himself of his plaid and buckler, and turning to the leader of the Mackenzies, who had nearly come up with him, beckoned him to follow, then with a few yards of a run he sprang over the yawning chasm, never before contemplated without a shudder. The agitation of his mind at the moment completely overshadowed the danger of the attempt, and being of an athletic frame he succeeded in clearing the desperate leap. The young and reckless Mackenzie, full of ardour and determined at all hazards to capture the murderer followed; but, being a stranger to the real width of the chasm, perhaps of less nerve than his adversary, and certainly not stimulated by the same feelings, he only touched the opposite brink with his toes, and slipping downwards he clung by a slender shoot of hazel which grew over the tremendous abyss. Allan Dubh looking round on his pursuer and observing the agitation of the hazel bush, immediately guessed the cause, and returning with the ferocity of a demon who had succeeded in getting his victim into his fangs, hoarsely whispered, "I have given your race this day much, I shall give them this also, surely now the debt is paid," when cutting the hazel twig with his sword, the intrepid youth was dashed from crag to crag until he reached the stream below, a bloody and misshapen mass. Macranuil again commenced his flight, but one of the Mackenzies, who by this time had come up, sent a musket shot after him, by which he was wounded, and obliged to slacken his pace. None of his pursuers, however, on coming up to Aultsigh, dared or dreamt of taking a leap which had been so fatal to their youthful leader, and were therefore under the necessity of taking a circuitous route to gain the other side. This circumstance enabled Macranuil to increase the distance between him and his pursuers, but the loss of blood, occasioned by his wound, so weakened him that very soon he found his determined enemies were fast gaining on him. Like an infuriated wolf he hesitated whether to await the undivided attack of the Mackenzies or plunge into Loch Ness and attempt to swim across its waters. The shouts of his approaching enemies soon decided him, and he sprung intoits deep and dark wave. Refreshed by its invigorating coolness he soon swam beyond the reach of their muskets; but in his weak and wounded state it is more than probable he would have sunk ere he had crossed half the breadth had not the firing and the shouts of his enemies proved the means of saving his life. Fraser of Foyers seeing a numerous band of armed men standing on the opposite bank of Loch Ness, and observing a single swimmer struggling in the water, ordered his boat to be launched, and pulling hard to the individual, discovered him to be his friend Allan Dubh, with whose family Fraser was on terms of friendship. Macranuil, thus rescued remained at the house of Foyers until he was cured of his wound, but the influence and the Clan of the Macdonalds henceforth declined, while that of the Mackenzies surely and steadily increased.
The heavy ridge between the vale of Urquhart and Aultsigh where Allan Dubh Macranuil so often divided his men, is to this day calledMonadh-a-leumanaichor "the Moor of the Leaper."
(To be Continued.)
FOOTNOTES:[A]Snails.
[A]Snails.
[A]Snails.
"How are the mighty fallen!"
Can this be the land where of old heroes flourished?Can this be the land of the sons of the blast?Gloom-wrapt as a monarch whose greatness hath perished,Its beauty of loneliness speaks of the past:—Tell me ye green valleys, dark glens, and blue mountains,Where now are the mighty that round ye did dwell?Ye wild-sweeping torrents, and woe-sounding fountains,Say, is it their spirits that wail in your swell?Oft, oft have ye leaped when your children of battle,With war-bearing footsteps rushed down your dark crests;Oft, oft have ye thundered with far-rolling rattle,The echoes of slogans that burst from their breasts:—Wild music of cataracts peals in their gladness,—Hoarse tempests still shriek to the clouds lightning-fired,—Dark shadows of glory departed, in sadnessStill linger o'er ruins where dwelt the inspired.The voice of the silence for ever is breakingAround the lone heaths of the glory-sung braves;Dim ghosts haunt in sorrow, a land all forsaken,And pour their mist tears o'er the heather-swept graves:—Can this be the land of the thunder-toned numbersThat snowy bards sung in the fire of their bloom?Deserted and blasted, in death's silent slumbers,It glooms o'er my soul like the wreck of a tomb.
Can this be the land where of old heroes flourished?Can this be the land of the sons of the blast?Gloom-wrapt as a monarch whose greatness hath perished,Its beauty of loneliness speaks of the past:—Tell me ye green valleys, dark glens, and blue mountains,Where now are the mighty that round ye did dwell?Ye wild-sweeping torrents, and woe-sounding fountains,Say, is it their spirits that wail in your swell?
Oft, oft have ye leaped when your children of battle,With war-bearing footsteps rushed down your dark crests;Oft, oft have ye thundered with far-rolling rattle,The echoes of slogans that burst from their breasts:—Wild music of cataracts peals in their gladness,—Hoarse tempests still shriek to the clouds lightning-fired,—Dark shadows of glory departed, in sadnessStill linger o'er ruins where dwelt the inspired.
The voice of the silence for ever is breakingAround the lone heaths of the glory-sung braves;Dim ghosts haunt in sorrow, a land all forsaken,And pour their mist tears o'er the heather-swept graves:—Can this be the land of the thunder-toned numbersThat snowy bards sung in the fire of their bloom?Deserted and blasted, in death's silent slumbers,It glooms o'er my soul like the wreck of a tomb.
WM. ALLAN.
Sunderland.
By "Nether-Lochaber."
Folk-Lore—a word of recent importation from the German—is a big word, and Highland Folk-Lore is a big subject, so big and comprehensive that not one Magazine article, but a many-chaptered series of Magazine articles would be necessary ere one could aver that he had done his "text" anything like justice. On the present occasion, therefore, we do not pretend to enter into the heart of a subject so extensive and many-sided: we shall content ourselves with a little scouting and skirmishing, so to speak, along the borders of a territory which it is possible we may ask the readers at some future time to explore along with us more at large. A few of the many proverbs, wisdom words, and moral and prudential sentences in daily use shall, in clerical phrase, meantime form "the subject-matter of our discourse." Nor must the reader think that the subject is in any wiseinfra dignitate, unworthy, that is, or undignified. Of the world-renowned Seven Wise Men of Greece, five at least attained to all their eminence and fame no otherwise than because they were the cunning framers of maxims and proverbs that rightly interpreted were calculated to advance and consolidate the moral and material welfare of the nation around them. Of the remaining two, it is true that one was an eminent politician and legislator, and the other a natural philosopher of the first order; but it is questionable if either of them would have been considered entitled to their prominent place in the GrecianPleiadesof Wise Men had they not been proverb-makers and utterers of brief but pregnant "wisdom-words" as well. Even Solomon, the wisest of men, was less celebrated as a botanist and naturalist, though he spake of trees, from the cedar that is in Lebanon, even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall; and of beasts, and of fowls, and of creeping things, and of fishes—less celebrated even as a lyrist, though his songs were a thousand and five, than for his proverbs and moral maxims of which the record takes care to tell us he spake no less than "three thousand." So much then for the dignity of our subject: what engaged the attention of Solomon and the Seven Sages of Greece cannot surely be unworthy some small share of our regard.
"Six and half-a-dozen" is an English phrase, implying either that two things are exactly the same, or so very much alike as to be practically the same. The old Gael was not much of an arithmetician, he rarely meddled with numbers, and therefore no precisely similar phrase is to be found in his language; but he could express the same idea in his own way, and so pithily and emphatically that his version of the proverbial axiom is, perhaps, as good as is to be found in any other language whatever. The Gael's equivalent for "six and half-a-dozen" is, "Bo mhaol odhar, agus bo odhar, mhaol"—(A cow that is doddled and dun, and acow that is dun and doddled)—a phrase drawn, as are many of his most striking proverbs and prudential maxims, and very naturally too, from his pastoral surroundings. We recollect an admirable and very ludicrous application of this saying in a story once told us by the late Dr Norman Macleod of Glasgow, "old" Norman that is, not the Barony Doctor, but his father:—When a boy in Morven, of which parish his father was minister, there was a well-known character in that part of the country called "Eoghann Gorach Chraigan Uibhir," Daft Ewen of Craig-an-Ure in Mull, a born "natural," who, although a veritable "fool," had yet in him much of the quiet, keen-edged satire and roguery which is not unfrequently found in the better ranks of such "silly ones." Ewen regularly perambulated Mull and Morven, with an occasional raid into the neighbouring districts of Sunart and Ardnamurchan. He had sense enough to be able to carry the current news of the day from district to district, and on this account was always a welcome guest in every farm-house and hamlet on his beat; and as he sung a capital song, and was remarkable for much harmless drollery and "dafting," he was, it is needless to say, a great favourite everywhere. He took a great interest in ecclesiastical affairs, and always attended the church when the state of his wardrobe and other circumstances permitted. On one occasion Ewen was passing through Morven, and knowing that the annual communion time was approaching, he called upon the minister and begged to know who his assistants on that particular occasion were to be. He was going to pay a visit, he said, to all the glens and outlying hamlets in the parish, and as the people were sure to ask him the important question, he wished to have the proper answer direct from the minister himself. "Tha raghadh 'us taghadh nam ministeiran, Eoghainn; An Doiteir A. B. a Inneraora, agus an Doiteir C. D. a Muille." (The pick and choice of ministers Ewen said the minister, Doctor A. B. from Inverary, and Doctor C. D. from Mull). "Whe-e-we!" in a contemptuously prolonged low whistle replied Ewen. "An ann mar so a tha; Bo mhaol, odhar, agus bo odhar, mhaol!" (And is it even so; are these to be your assistants? A cow that is doddled and dun, and a cow that is dun and doddled!) Than which nothing could more emphatically convey Ewen's very small opinion of the "assistants" mentioned. They were much of a muchness; six and half-a-dozen; a cow doddled and dun, and a cow dun and doddled! The Gael was a keen observer of natural phenomena, and some of his best sayings were founded on the knowledge thus acquired. Meteorological "wisdom-words" for instance, are quite common. "Mar chloich a ruith le gleann, tha feasgar fann foghairidh" is an admirable example. (As is the headlong rush of a stone, atumbling down the glen, so hurried and of short duration is an autumnal afternoon.) The philosophy of the saying is that you are to begin your work betimes in the season of autumn; at early dawn if possible, and not to stop at all for dinner, seeing that once the day has passed its prime, the hour of sunset approaches with giant strides, and there is little or no twilight to help you if you have been foolish enough to dawdle your time in the hours of sunset proper. "'S fas a chùil as nach goirear" is another pregnant adage. (Desert, indeed, is the corner whence no voice of bird is heard.) Some people are very quiet, almost dumb indeed, but on the occurrence of some event, or on the back of someremark of yours, they speak, and speak so clearly and well that you are surprised, and quote the saying that it is a solitary and silent glade indeed whence no voice is heard. "Am fear a bhios na thamh, saoilidh e gur i lamh fhein as fhearr air an stiùir" is a common saying of much meaning and wide application. (He that is idle [a mere spectator] thinks that he could steer the boat better than the man actually in charge.) And we all know how apt we are to meddle, and generally unwisely, with the proper labours of others. Nothing, for instance, is more annoying and dangerous even than to put forth your hand by way of helping a driver in managing his horses, or to interfere with the tiller of a boat at which a perfectly competent man is already seated. We have known the saying just quoted scores of times suffice to stop the unwise and gratuitous intermeddling of such as were disposed to interfere with what did not properly belong to them. "Bidh fear an aon mhairt aig uairean gun bhainne" is a frequent saying, and implies more than is at first sight apparent. (The man with only one cow will be at times without milk.) The import of the saying is something more than a mere statement of fact. You have only one cow, and you are certain to be at times without milk. Get by your industry and perseverancetwocows or three, and then you are pretty sure to have more or less milk all the year round.
We have thus briefly touched the hem, so to speak, of a very interesting subject—a subject that in the Highlands of Scotland, at least, has never yet received a tittle of the attention it deserves. And let no one be afraid to meddle with it to any extent he pleases, for we promise him that he will meet with nothing in any way to shock his delicacy or offend his taste, no matter how fine so ever of edge and exquisite; and in this respect, at all events, the good old Gael is superior to that of any other people of whom we have any knowledge. We may, perhaps, deal more at large with the subject in a future number. Meantime, we may state that we are of the same opinion as the Editor of theInverness Courier; there is abundance of room for theCeltic Magazineif it continues to be well conducted, without, in the least degree, encroaching upon the territories of any other periodicals interested in Celtic affairs.
Nether-Lochaber, November 1875.
Dedicated by consent toAlfred Tennyson.
All hail! far-seeing and creative power,Before whose might the universe bends lowIn silent adoration! Guide my penWhile from my soul the sounds of music pourTowards thy praises! For to thee belongsThe sounding stream of never-ending song.When out of chaos rose the glorious world,Sublime with mountains flowing from the skies,On lonely seas, sweet with slow-winding vales,Clasping the grandeur of the heavenly hillsWith soft and tender arms, or lowly glensShrinking from glowing gaze of searching sunBeneath the shade of the high-soaring hills;Grand with great torrents roaring o'er fierce cragsIn suicidal madness, sad with seasThat flash in silver of the gladdening sun,Yet ever wail in sadness 'neath the skiesOf smiling heaven (like a lovely lifeThat wears a sunny face, and wintry soul),Hopeful with fickle life renewing spring,Gladden'd with summer's radiance, autumn's joy,And sad and sullen with fierce winter's rain;Ruled by the race of God-made men who rushTowards eternity with half-shut eyes,Blind to the glories of sweet sky and sea,Wood-covered earth, and sun-reflecting hill,Thou in the mind of God, almighty power!Ruled, and directed his creative hand.With thee the seas spread and the hills aroseTo do thy Maker's will; the silvery starsLike heavenly glow-worms, beautifully cold,And gladly silent, gemmed the gloom of night,And shed the gladdening glances of their eyesOn the sad face of the night-darken'd earth.Without thy sweetening influence, the soulOf nature's bard were like a sunless plain,Or summer garden destitute of flowers,A winter day ungladden'd by the gleamOf flowing sun, or river searching wildThrough desert lands for ne'er appearing trees,Or peaceful flowers that sandy scenes disdain.No thought the philosophic mind impartsTo an enraptured world, but bears thy power,And owns thee as the agent of its birth.O'er the sweet landscape of the poet's mindThou sunlike shed'st the gladness of thy love,Inspiring all the scenes that lie below,Sweetening the bowers where Fancy loves to dwell,And on the crest of some huge mountain-thoughtPlacing the glory of thy fleecy cloud,To make its frowning grandeur greater still,And heighten all its beauteous mystery.Thro' the sweet-coloured plains of PoesyThou flowest like a sweetly-sounding stream,Here, rushing furious o'er the rocky cragsOf wild, original thought, and there, 'neath bowersOf imagery, winding on thy wayPeaceful and still towards the fadeless seaOf all enduring immortality.Like lightning flash for which no thunder-roarMakes preparation, from th' astonished mindOn an astonished and admiring worldThou dartest in thine overwhelming course,Leaving a track of splendour in thy train,And lighting up the regions of thy way.With thee sweet music sings her various song,And thrills the soul and elevates the mindWith "thoughts that often lie too deep for tears,"And own a sadness sweeter than the rills,A softer sweetness than the sinking sunGives to the sparkling face of pensive sea.With thee great genius walketh hand in handTowards the loftiest thought, or sits in prideUpon the golden throne of starry Fame.Borne on thy wings the pensive poet fliesTo the sweet-smiling land of sunny dreams,Or pours his floods of music o'er the world.With thy bright gleams his daily deeds are gemmed,And by thy balmy influence, his lifeSurvives when he is dead!
D. R. WILLIAMSON.
Maidenkirk.
or "LACHLAN MAC THEARLAICH OIG," the SKYE BARD.
Amongmany who have distinguished themselves by their display of poetical talents, the subject of the present brief memoir, holds a prominent place as a Gaelic poet. It is true that he was but little known to the world, but he was much admired as a bard, and greatly respected as a gentleman in his native "Isle of Mist."
Lachlan Mackinnon, patronimically designated "Lachlan Mac Thearlaich Oig," was born in the parish of Strath, Isle of Skye, in the year 1665. He was son of Charles Mackinnon of Ceann-Uachdarach, a cadet of the old family of Mackinnon of Mackinnon of Strath. His mother was Mary Macleod, daughter of John Macleod of Drynoch, in the same island. The poetical genius ofLachlan Mac Thearlaichshowed itself almost in his infancy. His father, like all Skye gentlemen in those good olden times, was a very social and hospitable man, who seemed never to be contented unless he had his house at Ceann-Uachdarach full of neighbours to enjoy themselves in his family circle. The company were often much amused with little Lachlan when a mere child, seeing the facility with which he composed couplets on any subject prescribed to him. At the age of eight he possessed a vigour of mind, and a vivacity of imagination rarely to be met with in youths of more than double his age. A predilection for poetry seemed to have gained an ascendency in his mind, over all other pursuits and amusements of his tender years. He received the rudiments of his education, under a tutor in his father's family, and as his native island had not, at that remote period, the advantage of public schools of any note, the young bard was sent, at the age of sixteen, to the school of Nairn, which, from its reputation at the time as an excellent seminary, was much resorted to by gentlemen's sons from all parts of the north. The young Hebridean remained at Nairn continuously for three years, and was greatly distinguished, not merely by his bright talents, but by his assiduity and perseverance in improving them. His studious disposition and diligent application were amply testified by the progress made by him, and no less duly appreciated by his superiors in the place. His love for study was enthusiastic, particularly in regard to the languages. He was by far the best Greek and Latin pupil at the Nairn Academy. His moments of relaxation were spent in the composition of poems in the English language while at Nairn, although, undoubtedly, the Gaelic was the medium which was most congenial to his mind for giving expression in rhyme to his sentiments. At Nairn, however, hecomposed several beautiful little pieces, and among the rest a song which was much admired, to the air subsequently immortalized by Burns as "Auld Lang Syne." Although his productions in English were much admired, yet, as it was to him an acquired language, they could bear no comparison with his truly superior compositions in Gaelic. It is a matter of much regret that so few of his Gaelic poems are extant. Like many bards he unfortunately trusted his productions to his memory; and although well qualified, as a Gaelic writer, to commit them to paper, yet he neglected it, and hence hundreds of our best pieces in Gaelic poetry are lost for ever. Had they been all preserved, and given to the public in a collected shape, they would have raised the talented author to that high rank among the Celtic bards, which his genius so richly merited.
In appearanceLachlan Mac Thearlaichwas tall, handsome, and fascinating. He was distinguished by a winning gentleness and modesty of manners, as well as by his generous sensibility and steadfast friendship. His presence was courted in every company, and he was everywhere made welcome. Of most of the chieftains and Highland lairds he was a very acceptable acquaintance, while no public assembly, or social meeting was considered complete if that object of universal favour, the bard of Strath, were absent.
When a very young man he was united in marriage to Flora, daughter of Mr Campbell of Strond, in the Island of Harris. Fondly attached to his native isle, he rented from his chief the farm of Breakish, with the grazing Island of Pabbay, at £24 sterling annually. And as an instance of the many changes effected by time, it may be mentioned that the same tenement is now rented at about £250 a-year. From what has been said of the bard's amiable disposition and gentle manners, it will seem no wise surprising that he proved to be one of the most affectionate of husbands, and dutiful of fathers. The happiness of the matrimonial state was to him, however, but of short duration. His wife, to whom he was greatly attached, died in the prime and vigour of life. He was rendered so disconsolate by means of his sudden and unexpected bereavement, that he took a dislike to the scene of his transient happiness, and relinquished his farm in Strath. Having removed from Skye, he took possession of a new tenement of lands from Mackenzie in Kintail. Greatly struck by what he considered the unrefined manners of his new neighbours in that quarter, and contrasting them with the more genial deportment of his own distinguished clan in Strath, he had the misfortune to exercise his poetic genius in the composition of some pungent satires and lampoons directed against the unpolished customs of the natives of Kintail. It is needless to add that by these means he gained for himself many enemies, and forfeited the good wishes of all around him. Finding himself thus disagreeably situated, after an absence of four years, he returned to Skye, where he was cordially received by his chief, and put in possession of his former farm at Breakish. After being twelve years a widower he went to Inverness for the purpose of visiting some of his schoolfellows who resided there. Previous to his leaving the capital of the Highlands his acquaintances there urged upon him the propriety of marrying a widowlady of the name of Mackintosh, whom they represented as being possessed of considerable means. He reluctantly complied with their wishes, but it became soon too apparent to him that he did so at the expense of his own happiness. His bride was not only penniless but deeply involved in debt. Next morning after his marriage he was visited by messengers who served him with summonses for a heavy debt due by his wife. In the impulse of the moment, while he held the summons in his hand, he seized a pen, and having taken his bride's Bible, wrote the following expressive lines on the blank leaf:—
"Tha'n saoghal air a roinn,Tha dà dhàn ann,Tha dàn ann gu bhi sona,Ach tha dàn an donuis ann."
This marriage proved, in every respect, an unhappy one. The lady, as a stepmother, was peevish, harsh, and undutiful. Her cruelty to her husband's children was a continual source of grief to him, and of unhappiness to his domestic circle. On a certain day, the lady quarrelling with one of her step-daughters, told her she hated to see her face, and that she always considered the day an unlucky one on which she had the misfortune to meet her first in the morning. The girl, inheriting no doubt a share of her father's power of repartee, quickly answered her stepmother, and said, "You have every cause to believe that it is unlucky to meet me, for I was first-foot to my dear father the unfortunate morning on which he left home to marry you."
Even amid his misfortunes, which he endured with much forbearance,Lachlan Mac Thearlaichwas renowned for his hospitality and genuine Highland friendship. Remote though the period be since he lived, still his memory is fondly cherished in the place. He was possessed of so endearing accomplishments, that time itself can hardly wipe away his memory from the minds of his countrymen and clan. Many fragments of his numerous songs continued for ages to be repeated in the country, but it is feared, from all the changes which have taken place in the circumstances of the natives, that these are now irretrievably lost. Many of his witty sayings became proverbial in the island. He was one of the first sportsmen in the country, and was considered one of the most successful deer stalkers of his day. Along with his other accomplishments he was an excellent performer on the violin, and in this respect he had no equal in the Western Isles. Of him it may be justly said:—
"To thee harmonious powers belong,That add to verse the charm of song;Soft melody with numbers join,And make the poet half divine!"
As a proof of Lachlan Mackinnon's loyalty, it may be mentioned that, quite contrary to the wishes of his chief, he went along with some other loyal subjects, all the way from Skye to Inverness, in the year 1717, to sign a congratulatory address to George I. on his succeeding to the British throne. He spent the remainder of his days in his native isle and parish, and died universally regretted in the year 1734, at the age of sixty-nine. His funeral was attended by most of the Highland chieftains, and theirprincipal vassals. His cousin-german, Alasdair Dubh of Glengarry, and all his gentlemen tacksmen were then present, as also Macdonald of the Isles, Macleod of Dunvegan, Mackinnon of Mackinnon, and Mackenzie of Applecross, with their chief retainers. A numerous band of Highland pipers preceded the bier playing the usual melancholy coronach. Amidst a vast assemblage of all ranks and classes his remains were consigned to their kindred dust in the old churchyard of Gillchrist, being the burying-ground of the parish which gave him birth. A rude flag, with an inscription, still marks the poet's grave; but the memory of his many virtues will be handed down in the place to generations yet unborn.
Lachlan Mac Thearlaichcomposed a beautiful and pathetic song which is still preserved, to "Generosity, Love, and Liberality." He personified those three, and pretended that he met them as lonely outcasts in a dreary glen, and addressed them:—
Latha siubhal slēibhe dhomh,'S mi 'falbh leam fein gu dlùth,A chuideachd anns an astar sinAir gunna glaic a's cù,Gun thachair clann rium anns a' ghleann,A'gul gu fann chion iùil;Air leam gur h-iad a b' aillidh dreachA chunnacas riamh le m' shùil.Gu'm b' ioghnadh leam mar tharladh dhoibhA'm fàsach fad air chùl,Coimeas luchd an aghaidhean,Gu'n tagha de cheann iùil,Air beannachadh neo-fhiata dhomhGu'n d' fhiaraich mi, "Cò sùd?"'S fhreagair iad gu cianail miA'm brïathraibh mine ciùin."Iochd, a's Gràdh, a's Fiughantas,'Nar triùir gur h-e ar n-ainm,Clann nan uaislean urramach,A choisinn cliu 's gach ball,'Nuair a phàigh an fhēile cis d'an Eūg'Sa chaidh i fein air chàll'Na thiomnadh dh' fhàg ar n-athair sinnAig maithibh Innse-Gall."SGIATHANACH.
Latha siubhal slēibhe dhomh,'S mi 'falbh leam fein gu dlùth,A chuideachd anns an astar sinAir gunna glaic a's cù,Gun thachair clann rium anns a' ghleann,A'gul gu fann chion iùil;Air leam gur h-iad a b' aillidh dreachA chunnacas riamh le m' shùil.
Gu'm b' ioghnadh leam mar tharladh dhoibhA'm fàsach fad air chùl,Coimeas luchd an aghaidhean,Gu'n tagha de cheann iùil,Air beannachadh neo-fhiata dhomhGu'n d' fhiaraich mi, "Cò sùd?"'S fhreagair iad gu cianail miA'm brïathraibh mine ciùin.
"Iochd, a's Gràdh, a's Fiughantas,'Nar triùir gur h-e ar n-ainm,Clann nan uaislean urramach,A choisinn cliu 's gach ball,'Nuair a phàigh an fhēile cis d'an Eūg'Sa chaidh i fein air chàll'Na thiomnadh dh' fhàg ar n-athair sinnAig maithibh Innse-Gall."
SGIATHANACH.
Inthe yellow sunset of ancient Celtic glory appear the band of warriors known as the Ossianic heroes. Under the magnifying and beautifying influence of that sunset they tower upon our sight with a stature and illustriousness more than human. Of these heroes, the greatest and best wasFionnor Fingal. Unless our traditions are extensively falsified he was a man in whom shone all those virtues which are the boast of our race. The unflinching performance of duty, the high sense of honour, the tenderness more than woman's, and the readiness to appreciate the virtues of others were among his more conspicuous characteristics. Now that Celtic anthropology is being so extensively discussed, is it not remarkable that Fingal, who so truly personifies the character of that race, is not adduced as the representative Celt? He was a Celt to the very core, and Celtic character has been in no small degree moulded by copying his example. He was, in truth, not theultimusbut thePrimus Gaelorum.
Nevertheless, it must be confessed that to many English readers Fingal is nothing but a name, and that even to most of them he looms dark and dim through the mist of years. Unhappily, a nature so transcendently humane and heroic as his is not the sort to win the admiration of the vulgar. Nay, so far is its simple grandeur removed above the common materialism of modern life that the most refined cannot, at first sight, appreciate its exalted loveliness.
The fullest and, we believe, the truest account of him is to be found in Ossian's poems. That the poetry so denominated was, in substance, composed by Ossian we have no doubt. At any rate the descriptions of Fingal therein contained are not only consistent throughout, but also in accordance with all that we know of him from other sources. But were we even to adopt the absurd theory that Fingal is a creation of Macpherson's imagination, the intrinsic beauty of the picture well deserves our study.
An old man retaining all the energy, but not the rashness of youth; age with vigour instead of decrepitude, delighting in the words of sound wisdom rather than the usual tattle of second childhood; and, withal, an old man who is prone to moralise as old men are; a man able and willing to do his duty in the present though his heart is left in the past; such is the most prominent figure in these poems. He is pourtrayed as of tall, athletic frame and kingly port, his majestic front and hoary locks surmounted by the helm and eagle plume of the Celtic kings.
Though the idea of Fingal pervades most of Ossian's poems he is seldom introducedin propria persona. Even when attention is directed to him the poet merely and meagerly sketches the herculean outline, and leaves our imagination to do the rest:—
At intervals a gleam of light afarGlanced from the broad, blue, studded shield of war,As moved the king of chiefs in stately pride;With eager gaze his eye was turned asideTo where the warriors' closing ranks he sees;Half-grey his ringlets floated in the breezeAround that face so terrible in fightAnd features glowing now with grim delight.—Tem. B. V.
In order to introduce his hero with the greatereclat, the bard first places his friends in great straits; represents them, though brave, as overcome by the enemy and without hope, apart from Fingal. Both friends and foes speak of him in terms of respect, and even the greatest leaders acknowledge his superiority. When Fingal appears on the scene the poet rouses himself to the utmost. He piles simile on simile to give an adequate idea of his first charge—
Through Morven's woods when countless tempests roar,When from the height a hundred torrents pour,Like storm-clouds rushing through the vault of heaven,As when the mighty main on shore is driven,So wide, so loud, so dark, so fierce the strainWhen met the angry chiefs on Lena's plain.The king rushed forward with resistless might,Dreadful as Trenmor's awe-inspiring sprite,When on the fitful blast he comes againTo Morven, his forefather's loved domain.Loud in the gale the mountain oaks shall roar,The mountain rocks shall fall his face before,As by the lightning's gleam his form is spiedStalking from hill to hill with giant stride.More terrible in fight my father seemedWhen in his hand of might his weapon gleamed,On his own youth the king with gladness thoughtWhen in the furious highland wars he fought.—Fingal B. III.
The notion that Ossian drew in part, at least from real life, is favoured by the wonderful calmness and absence of effort evinced in delineating so great a character. Expressions that go far to heighten our admiration of Fingal are employed in a quiet matter of course way. "The silence of the king is terrible," is an expressive sentence. Or this again, "The heroes ... looked in silence on each other marking the eyes of Fingal."
Nor are the gentler feelings less fully brought out in Ossian's favourite character. Nothing could speak more for his affability than the attachment shown by his followers. "Fear, like a vapour winds not among the host! for he, the king, is near; the strength of streamy Selma. Gladness brightens the hero. We hear his words with joy."[A]
Gallantry and philanthropy we might expect to find in his composition, but the tenderness he frequently displays strikes us as remarkable in an uncivilized chief. His lamentation over the British city on the Clyde is as pathetic as any similar passage in our language.
Another surprising trait is the generosity he invariably displays to his vanquished foes. All the more surprising is it that a "savage" should show magnanimity when the heroes of civilized Greece, Rome, and Judea,counted it virtuous to torture their captured enemies. "None ever went sad from Fingal," he says himself. Over and over he is represented as lamenting the death of enemies when they fall, or granting them freedom and his friendship when they yield—"Come to my hill of feasts," he says to his wounded opponent Cathmor, "the mighty fail at times. No fire am I to lowlaid foes. I rejoice not over the fall of the brave."
A notable fact about Fingal is, that though he lived in times of war, in disposition he was a man of peace. "Fingal delights not in battle though his arm is strong." "When will Fingal cease to fight?" he complains, "I was born in the midst of battles, and my steps must move in blood to the tomb." Under the influence of this desire for peace he formally gave up his arms to Ossian—
My son, around me roll my byegone years,They come and whisper in the monarch's ears."Why does not grey-haired Fingal rest?" they say"Why does he not within his fortress stay?Dost thou in battle's gory wounds delight?Lovest thou the tears of vanquished men of might?"Ye hoary years! I will in quiet lie,Nor profit nor delight in blood have I.Like blustering storms from wintry skies that roll,Tears waste with grief and dreariness the soul.But when I stretch myself to rest, I hearThe voice of war come thundering on my earWithin the royal hall, with loud command,To rouse and draw again th' unwilling brand.—Tem. B. VIII.
Limited as were the means of communication in those pre-telegraphic times the fame of such a man must have spread. Accordingly, we read of his name being known and respected far and near. Foreign princes speak of him with admiration, and refugees from distant lands seek his protection.
But it is on the power of his name in after times that we wish more particularly to dwell. There have been no people who honoured their heroes so much as the Celts. With themvalourandvaluewere synonymous terms. Theirs was not a nobility of money, or literature, or æsthetics, or even of territory. Nobleness should be the qualification of a nobleman, and strange as it may seem, it was among the uncivilised Celts of Ireland and Scotland that such a character was properly appreciated. But they held nobleness and heroism to be identical. They seem to have thoroughly believed that cowardice was but the result of vice. A fearless man, they felt, must be a true man, and he was honoured accordingly.Flath-innis, theIsle of the Noble, was their only name for heaven.Allailordivinethey applied to their heroic men. To imitate such was the old Celtic religion as it was the primitive religion of most other peoples.
Among all the heroes whom the ancient Gael worshipped there was no name so influential as Fingal's. Through the ages he has been the idol and ideal of the Celt. His example was their rule of justice. His maxims were cited much as we would quote Scripture. To the youth he was held up as the model after which their lives should be patterned, and where Christianity had not yet eradicated the old creed, apost mortemdwelling with him inFlath-inniswas deemed no mean incentive to goodness. He was, in fact, the god of the Gaelic people, worshipped with nooutward altar, but enshrined in the hearts of his admirers. How far the more admirable traits of Highland character may be attributed to the assimilating influence of the idea of Fingal we cannot decide. That our character as a people has been largely influenced for good by the power of his example we have no doubt. The bards, an order of the old Druidic hierarchy, became the priests of the Fingalian hero-worship. Songs, elegies, and poetic legends formed their service of praise. To induce their countrymen to reverence and imitate so great and glorious a Gael as Fingal was the object of many of their bardic homilies. Taking into account the nature and circumstances of the ancient Caledonians, we must conclude that from position and influence none were more suitable to become their ethical and æsthetical advisers than these minstrel ministers of the Fingalian hero-olatry.
Of course such a faith could not long withstand the more generous and cosmopolitan spirit of Christianity, yet we venture to assert that it was vastly preferable in its effects to some abortions of our common creed. That there was a conflict between the two religions we know. As late as the sixteenth century a Christian ecclesiastic complains that the leaders of Gaelic thought of the period were heathen enough to delight in "stories about the Tuath de Dhanond and about the sons of Milesius, and about the heroes andFionn(Fingal), the son of Cumhail with his Fingalians ... rather than to write and to compose and to support the faithful words of God and the perfect way of truth."
Down to the present day the name ofFionnis reverenced by the less sophisticated Highlanders and Islanders. That his name will in future be more extensively, if less intensely, respected we may confidently predict. As men's views become more broad and just, and their feelings become more cultivated and refined, we may hope that a superior character such as Fingal will by-and-bye be appreciated. Even now he is widely admired and we begin to read in the signs of the times the fulfilment of his own words:—
When then art crumbled into dust, O! stone;Lost in the moss of years around thee grown;My fame, which chiefs and heroes love to praise,Shall shine a beam of light to future days,Because I went in steel and faced th' alarmsOf war, to help and save the weak in arms.—Tem. B. VIII.
MINNIE LITTLEJOHN.