Chapter III: Part 3

The Lochlinners came to Barra at one time and they put Mac Neil to flight. He escaped to Ireland, where he remained. When his sons grew up, they heard themselves continually twitted as strangers, and called “Barraich.” They resolved to find out the reason of this treatment, and one day, while at dinner, they demanded from their father an explanation of their being called by such an uncommon name as “Barraich” (Barraidhich); but he replied that the mention of that name caused him the deepest sorrow, and forbade them ever to mention it in his hearing again. “We will never eat a bite nor drink a drink again,” they said, “till we know what the word means.” He then explained the name and told them all that happened to him and how he had to suffer indignity and scorn as long as his powerful enemies the Norsemen held his lands. His sons on hearing the cause of their father’s banishment resolved to try every means in their power to recover their inheritance. They began to fit out a galley (_bìrlinn_), and when it was completed with masts, sails, oars, crew and compass, and in readiness to go away, their father gave them the point to Barra Head, and said, that if the man he left at Barra was still there, and whose name was Macillcary (Mac’ille-charaich), he would direct them straight to the place where they were to go to in search of their enemies. Thus it happened (_’s ann mar sin a bhà_). They found the man and told him who they were and the purpose for which they came. He bade them steer for Castle Bay (_Bàigh-a’-chaisteil_) and a light on the right-hand-side as they entered. They reached the house where the light was, but could get no entrance. They climbed to the roof, and looking through an opening saw a poor old man who was weeping bitterly. They called to him that they were friends, and on admitting them he told them how that day he had been paying his rent to the Lochlinners and wanted a few marks of it, for this they threatened him that if he did not return with the balance of the rent, he would receive next day at noon a certain number of lashes. The Mac Neils then told their errand, and the old man joyfully showed them the most direct and secret way to the Castle, in which was a well of pure water whose source was unknown. They took the castle, and went on to Kinloch (Ceannloch), and cleared Vaslam as well. They then sent word to their father, who came with a band of followers to their help, and others, native born, whom he had formerly known, and on whose friendship he could rely, as soon as the tidings of his return reached them, joined his band. An unacknowledged son whom he had left, came among the rest to his assistance. This son, from the circumstance, was known as Mac-an-amharuis (the son of doubt). When he put forward his claim, Mac Neil replied, “If you are a son of mine, prove it by clearing Eilean Fiaradh, before morning, of my enemies.” “Give me the means then,” Mac-an-amharuis answered, “and I will not leave the blood of one of the race in any part or place (_’s cha’n fhàg mi fuil fìneig dhiubh ’an àite na’n ionad_).” Mac Neil gave him his own sword, and that night while the Lochlinners, who had been carousing heavily, slept soundly, he made his way and got secretly in to the castle which stands on an inlet before Eoligarry castle, eight miles from Castle Bay, and killed the inmates where they lay. It is said that their bodies are still to be seen when a violent storm drifts the sand hither and thither over the fort (_tigh-dìon_) where they were slain. From that day Mac Neil had his own rights.

FINLAY GUIVNAC.

At the time MacLean of Dowart was proprietor of Tiree, this man, _Fionnladh Guibhneach_, was living near a small bay, _Port-nan-long_, in Balemartin, on the south side of the island (_air an leige deas_). There was no other joinersmith but himself, or rather, there was none to equal him in skill in the five islands (_anns na còig eileanan_). Balemartin and Mannal were in those days one farm-holding, and there were few people in the township. The change-house (_tigh-òsd_) was at the streamlet Gedans (_amhuinn Ghoidean_), between Island House, the proprietor’s residence, and the shore. At this time, also, there was fosterhood (_comhaltas_) between MacLeod of Dunvegan and MacLean of Tiree, by which they were bound to give proof of friendship for each other at whatever cost or whenever there was occasion on either side, and MacLeod, being in need of Finlay Guivnac’s service, came with his boat (_bìrlinn_) to Tiree for him. He landed at _Port-nan-long_ (the creek of sailing ships), and on reaching Island House was heartily welcomed by MacLean. When he asked for Finlay, he was told that he had not been at Island House for some days, “and it is not a good day when I do not see him,” MacLean said. MacLeod said he came to take Finlay with him for a year’s service; that all care would be taken of him, and if no misfortune or mischance befell either of them, he himself would bring him home at the end of the year. When MacLean heard this he said they would go in search of Finlay. They went, and as they were crossing the common (_an clar macharach_), between the house and the streamlet, they met Finlay, who, having recovered from the attack of ill-humour, was, as was usually his daily custom, on his way to Island House. MacLeod asked after his health, and if he was yet able to do as good work as ever. Finlay said that in place of getting weaker as he got older, he was daily gaining in strength and vigour (_neart’s tàbhachd_); he was more active in walking, and could see better than he had ever done. MacLeod said he was surprised to hear that, as in Skye people were failing in strength and activity as they became older, “and it is curious that it is different with you.” Finlay said he knew he was better now at walking and was gaining his eyesight, as formerly he could jump over Sorabai stream, but now he walked to the ford to get across; and when he was younger, if he saw a person, it was as one, but now it was as two and three. They took Finlay with them to the change-house. When pledging MacLean’s health, MacLeod, as was customary, said, “Wishing to get my wish from you, MacLean” (_Mo shainnseal ort, Mhic’illeathain_).

“You are welcome to have your wish freely gratified” (_’S e beatha le sainnseal_),[15] MacLean replied. “My wish is that I may get Finlay with me,” MacLeod said. In returning the compliment MacLean said, “My wish is that I may keep Finlay to myself.” “But I do not ask to keep him always,” MacLeod said. They then settled the wages, and agreed between them that Finlay should go to Dunvegan, on the west coast of Skye, for a year’s work, and lest he should be kept longer than that time, MacLean was to go with him. When Finlay went home and told his wife about the journey he was to take, she said to him, “You are very foolish to go so far away, when MacLean is giving you a good livelihood.” “I must go at any rate, and you must come with me,” he said, and told her how he was not to remain in Skye, and that MacLean himself was going with him to make sure he would not be kept there, and that she was to go with them. “How can I do that,” she said, “when MacLean will not allow a woman in the same boat with him?” “I will put you in a hogshead,” he said, “and when we reach Dunvegan there will be feasting and enjoyment, and when the nobility of MacLeod (_maithibh Siol Leòid_) are gathered, you will come in among the company as a poor woman, and I will manage the rest in such a way as that you may perhaps earn more than myself.” She consented to this, and he put her at night with sufficient provision in the boat. They reached Dunvegan safely (_le deadh shoirbheachadh_). Finlay’s wife got away unnoticed from the boat, and waited at a house near till the festivities began. When the crew and those who came in the boat reached the castle, there was much rejoicing; an abundant feast was provided, and company gathered, and the usual customs when tables were spread and guests invited, were observed. Among those who came to the gathering was a dependent of good position, who, through some trifling cause, had lost the favour of MacLeod. Finlay observed that he kept aloof from the company, and having ascertained the cause, advised him to pledge MacLeod’s health, and at the same time make his grievance known. He took the advice, and said,

“Esteemed was I in MacLeod’s house
When justice sat in his land,
And I am a forgotten son to-night
At the time of drawing in to wine (drinking),
But this to you, son of Dark John,
Who came in to-day or yesterday,
I am the son of a hero
Who was here in the past,
Though I cannot to-day
Get the hill for my cattle.”

(“Bu mhùirneach mise ’an tigh Mhic Leòid
’Nuair shuidh a’ chòir ’n a thìr,
’S mac dì-chuimhnicht’ mi ’n nochd ’n a theach
’An àm tarruing a steach gu fion,
Ach sud ortsa, mhic Iain Duibh,
A thàinig stigh an diugh no ’n dé,
Mise mac suinn a bh’ ann riamh
Ged nach fhaigh mi ’n diugh an sliabh g’ am spréidh.”)

“Good youth,” MacLean said, “go you to Mull and I will give you land (_fearann_) there.” He said,

“I was a hero’s son last year,
But I am a son of sorrow this year;
If I am put under a third weight,
I will be a son of Mull next year.”

(“Bu mhac suinn mi an uiridh,
Ach mac mulaid mi ’m bliadhna;
Ma chuireas iad orm tuille treise,
’S mac Muileach mi air an ath-bhliadhna.”)

“MacLeod’s own lands are not yet exhausted,” MacLeod said, and he restored him to his former place and privileges, and he never had to go to Mull or anywhere else for land.

During this time Finlay kept looking for his wife’s appearance, and whenever he saw her in the doorway he called out to her, “Poor woman! what has brought you here? It must be some pressing need that made you come among the nobles of the Clan Leod to-night. Tell your story, and sure am I they will one and all be willing to give you help, and that they will not let you away as empty-handed as you have come.” She said she was a poor woman who was bringing herself through life honestly as she best could, with help from those who took notice of her poverty and gave her charity, and that she came to the nobles of the Clan Leod, as they were gathered at this time, to try if they would help her. “Let your countrymen do as they like,” Finlay said, “I will give you a calving cow (_mart-laoigh_).” MacLean looked at him in astonishment, and it was no wonder, when he heard him give away the only cow the poor woman in Balemartin had to the northern wife (_do ’n chaillich thuathaich_). Everyone of the nobles present gave her a similar gift, till she had the nine cows. When the company left, and MacLean had an opportunity of speaking to Finlay, he said to him, “What made you give the only cow you had to the northern wife?” “Do you know who the wife is?” Finlay said. “What do I care what wife she is or was,” MacLean said. “It was just my own wife who was there and got all the cows, and you need not give her yours till you return home,” Finlay said. “And how did you bring her here?” MacLean asked. “Ods! MacLean,” he said, “just in the big hogshead at your feet in the galley.” “No death will ever happen to you but to be hanged for your quirks” (_cha tig bàs ortsa ’m feasd ach do chrochadh le d’ raoitean_), MacLean said, and he advised him to send the cattle to Mull, till they could be ferried to Tiree. Finlay took the advice, and sent his wife and the cows to MacLean’s place at Benmolach, on the north-west side of Mull, and she got them to Balemartin, where MacLean on his return home sent her his own gift.

Finlay began his work and went on diligently with it that he might be ready at the end of the year to return home, and MacLeod came frequently where he was, more to hear what he had to say than to see the progress he was making with his work. One day, happening to find him at his breakfast, and observing that Finlay began at the back with a shape of butter (_measgan-ìme_) that was set before him, MacLeod asked him when he had finished, why he did not begin at the front of it. “I took it just from back to front as was wont at MacLean’s table, where the measures were round (_far nach biodh na measgain ’n am bloidhean_)” On another occasion MacLeod found him paring a remnant of cheese (_cùl càise_), and asked him when he had learned to pare cheese. “Since I came to MacLeod’s Castle,” he said: “it was not the custom to put a remnant on the inviting, merry, bountiful table in MacLean’s house (_air bòrd fiughaireach, aighearach, fialaidh Mhic’illeathain_).”

When the year had expired, MacLean, as had been agreed on, went to bring Finlay home. He was cordially received by MacLeod and was enjoying, after his journey, the usual hospitalities prepared for guests of his rank, when he heard the sound of Finlay’s hammer: “My loss! (_mo chreach!_),” he said, “I have too long delayed going where Finlay is.” When he reached him, he said, “Excuse me, Finlay, I have been rather a long time of coming where you are.” “I know that, MacLean,” he said,

“The object of my contempt is the small table
Where meanness would be (found):
The object of my praise was the well filled table
Where proud heroes sat.
You did not take in Finlay Guivnac
Nor remember him till the last.”

(“B’e mo laochan am bòrd suaile
Air am bitheadh na laoich mheamnach:
Cha d’ thug thusa stigh do ghobhainn Guibhneach,
’S cha do chuimhnich thu e gu anmoch.”)

MacLean then asked after his welfare during the year, and said among other things, he would like to hear what were his opinions of the women of the MacLeod country since his coming among them. “Well, I will tell you that,” Finlay said,

“If all the women of the Clan MacLeod,
Small and great, old and young,
Were gathered in one body,
It would be one right one I would make out of them.”

(“Ged bhiodh mnathan Sìol Leòid,
Beag is mòr, sean ’s crìon,
Air an càradh ’an aona bhodhaig
’S e aona bhean chòir a dheanainn dhiubh.”)

“They will not be well pleased with your words.” “They will be better pleased with my words than I have been with their ways,” Finlay said; “I see it is time to return to Tiree,” MacLean said.

When Finlay went to get payment from MacLeod before leaving, and as they were conversing together after settling between them, MacLeod said he would lay a wager that the peats of Tiree would not burn so well as the peats of Skye. “What is your opinion, Finlay?” MacLean asked; “Shall I accept the wager?” “Well, as a matter of indifference I will wager they will not burn as well as those of the White Moss in Tiree (_Leòra! cuiridh mise geall uach gabh iad co maith ri mòine Bhlàir-bhàin ’an Tireadh_),” Finlay said, and the wager was laid. “I will try another wager,” MacLeod said, “that our dogs will thrash the MacLean dogs.” This wager was also accepted, and MacLeod came to Tiree with them, bringing peats and dogs with him in the galley. On putting the wagers to the test, the Skye peat when kindled lighted brightly with a great flare, but was soon burnt out. MacLean then asked if they would try the Tiree kind now. As none had been brought by the servants, and as it had previously been agreed on between them, MacLean asked Finlay to go for them himself. Finlay said perhaps it would not be the best that he would bring in. He went out, and gathering an armful of peats took and steeped them one by one (_fòid an déigh fòid_) in a cask of oil. When MacLeod saw them he said, “O man, how wet they are! (_O dhuine, nach iad a tha fliuch_).” “The wetter they are, the livelier they will burn (_mar a’ s fliuiche ’s ann a’ s braise iad_),” Finlay replied, putting them on; and when they took fire they nearly burned the house. “Did I not say they would burn better than those of Skye,” Finlay said to MacLeod, “and you have lost the wager.” “Undoubtedly I have,” the other replied. Next day the dog fight (_tabaid chon_) was to be tried. Finlay rose early and gave his dogs the strongest “crowdie” (_fuarag_, a mixture of milk and meal), and though they were smaller when the fight began, MacLeod’s dogs could not hold one bout with them. “It is surprising,” MacLeod said, “when one of my dogs is as big as two of MacLean’s dogs.” “You need not be at all surprised,” Finlay said, “those here are of the race of dogs that were in the land of the Fians (_so sìolachadh nan con a bh’ aca ’s an Fhéinn_), and no other kind need try their strength against them.” “If you were in the land of the Fians, you came back, and no one need lay a wager with MacLean so long as he has you with him.” MacLeod bade them farewell and returned home (_Dh’ fhàg e beannachd aca ’s thill e dhachaidh_).

NOTES:

[15] _Sainnseal_ means the giving of a free gift, or handsel.

BIG DEWAR OF BALEMARTIN, TIREE.

He was John MacLean, a native of Dowart in the island of Mull, who fled to Jura.[16] He is said to have been the first man from that island who settled in Tiree, and on that account was known as Dewar (_Diùrach_).[17] He and his seven sons were alike powerful and strong men. They held the township of Balemartin (on the south side of Tiree), including Sorabi, where a burying ground is, and where there was at one time a chapel to which was attached the land of Sorabi garden. At this time the people in the island were paying rent or tax (_cìs_), but it was found impossible to make big John Dewar submit to pay the tax. The first time any attempt was made to compel him to pay it, he took with him his seven sons to Island-House, the proprietor’s residence, and put them on the sward in front of the house (_air dòirlinn an eilein_), saying, “This is the payment I have brought you, and you may take it or leave it.” Another attempt to enforce payment from him ended as told in the following account:--

One day when he and his sons were ploughing, two of the sons being at Sorabi, as there were few people in the neighbourhood, and his sons were at some distance from him, he had to go himself to the smithy to repair the ploughshare (_a ghlasadh an t-suic_). It was the beginning of summer, and he left the horses in the plough, eating the wild mustard (_sgeallan_) in the field where he was ploughing, grass and other herbage being scant. While their father was away at the smithy, the sons who were at Sorabi, on taking a look seawards, observed a boat (_bìrlinn_) coming in towards the shore. It kept its course for the small bay of boats (_port nan long_), in Balemartin, and had on board a very strong man called “Dark John Campbell” (_Iain Dubh Caimbeul_), who was sent to collect the tax from those in the island who were unwilling to pay it. He had an able crew with him in the boat. They landed, and when they reached the place where Dewar was ploughing, the first thing they did was to seize the horses in the plough (_na h-eich a bha ’s an t-seisreach_), to take them away in the boat as payment of the tax. When they were almost ready to be off, Dewar came in sight on his return from the smithy. On seeing the unwelcome strangers he quickened his steps to intercept them, and took hold of the horses to take them back. Campbell drew his sword, bidding him be off as fast as he could or he would put his head beside his feet. Dewar drew his own sword and said, “Come on and do all you are able.” The fray began between them, and Dewar was driving Campbell, Inveraray, backwards until he put him in among the graves (_lic_) in the burying-ground, and it so happened that Campbell stumbled on MacLean’s cross and fell backwards. Before he could raise himself Dewar got the upper hand of him. On seeing him fall, his men were certain that he must have been killed, and they went away with the horses to the boat and put off to sea. “Let me rise,” Campbell said, “and I will give you my word that I will never come again on the same errand.” “I will,” Dewar said, “but give me your oath on that, that it will be as that (_gu ’m bi sin mar sin_).” Campbell gave his word, “and more than that,” he said, “I will send you the value of the horses when I reach Inveraray.” “You will now come with me to my house,” Dewar said, “and you need not have fear or dread; your house-quarters and welcome will not be worse than my own, till you can find a way of returning home.” In the course of some days Campbell got away, and he never returned again to “bullyrag” or intimidate any one. On reaching Inveraray he was as good as his word. He sold the horses and sent the price to Dewar, who was never compelled to pay the tax.

NOTES:

[16] The cause of John Dewar’s flight to Jura is said to have been occasioned by his having given information to MacLaine of Lochbuie which was injurious to MacLean of Dowart, in a dispute that occurred between them.

[17] Several of John Dewar’s descendants are at the present day in Tiree. They are known as _na Diùraich_, one family who are descended from the elder of his sons being cottars in Balemartin.

THE BIG LAD OF DERVAIG.

Contemporary with John Dewar of Balemartin, Tiree, the Big Lad was living at Dervaig, Mull, with his father, Charles, son of Fair Neil of Dervaig. This lad, as he grew up to manhood, became noted for his great strength and prowess, as well as for his handsome person. At the same time he was reckless and foolish. Despising his father’s reproofs and heedless of his counsel, advice or admonitions, he went on in his mad career until at last he purloined money from him, with which he bought a ship and went sailing away, none of his friends knew whither. After some years he returned home, broken-down in appearance, empty-handed, and a complete “tatterdemalion,” having wrecked his ship on the coast of Ireland, and lost all the wealth he had accumulated to repay his father, who was now dead. The grieve (_an t-aoirean_) had the land, and he went where he was. The grieve told him about his father’s death, and advised him to go to his father’s brother, Donald, son of fair Neil, who had Hynish, Tiree, at that time, and whatever advice he would get from him, to follow it, and he (the grieve) would give him clothing and means to take him there, on condition of being repaid when he returned. As there was no other way open to him of redeeming his past errors, he agreed to the grieve’s conditions and went to Tiree to his uncle, by whom he was coldly received. “What business has brought you, and where are you going when you have come here?” “To ask advice from yourself,” he said. “Good was the advice your father had to give, and you did not take it; what I advise you to do is, to go and enlist in the Black Watch, and that will keep you out of harm. You will stay here to-night, and I will give you money to-morrow morning to take you to the regiment,” his uncle said. His uncle was married to a daughter of MacLean, Laird of Coll. Her husband did not tell her of his nephew’s arrival, as he was displeased at his coming. When the Big Lad was leaving the house next morning, she saw him passing the window and asked who the handsome-looking stranger was. On being told, she made him return to the house, gave him food, drink, and clothing, and on parting, money to take him on his way. He returned to Dervaig, paid the ploughman his due, and went off to the wars. At the first place he landed, said to be Greenock, a pressgang was waiting to seize whoever they could get to suit the king’s service, and on seeing this likely man they instantly surrounded him, to carry him off by force. He turned about and asked what they wanted with him. They said, “To take you with us in spite of you.” When he understood their intentions he opened his arms to their widest extent and drove all those before him, eighteen men, backwards into the sea, and left them there floating to get out the best way they could. He then made his way till he enlisted in the Black Watch, then on the eve of leaving for America, where it remained for seven years. During that time the Big Lad (_an Gille mòr_) won the esteem and commendation of his superiors in rank, by his exemplary conduct and good bearing, as well as the admiration and affection of his equals, to whom he was courteous and forbearing. When the regiment was returning to England, the officers frequently spent their leisure time, on board of the man-of-war that brought it home, playing dice. One day, when they were at their games, the Big Lad was looking on, and he saw a young man, one of the English officers, insolently, but more in jest than in earnest, striking on the ear the colonel of the regiment, who, the Big Lad knew, was a Highlander. When he saw the insult was not resented, he said in Gaelic to the Colonel, “Why did you let him strike you?” (_C’ ar son a leig thu leis do bhualadh?_). “You are, then, a Highlander,” the colonel said to him, “and you have been with me for seven years without telling me that you are.” “If you would do what I ask you, I will make you one that he will not do the same thing to you again,” he said to the colonel.

“What do you want me to do?” the colonel said. “That you will write out my discharge when we reach London,” he said. “But a soldier cannot get his discharge without an order (stamped) under the crown,” the colonel said. “Write what you can for me and I will not plead for more,” he said. “Anything I can write will not do you any good,” the colonel said. “Write that itself,” he said; and he got it written. Next time the play was going on, the Big Lad looked on, and when he saw the same one striking the colonel again, he went to him and asked why he did it. The reply he got was that soldiers were not allowed to question their officers. “This is my way of excusing myself,” the Big Lad said, giving him a blow he had cause to remember all his life, if he ever recovered from it. The soldier was sentenced to be severely punished, but on arriving in England, he deserted--though desertion of the army is not a custom of Highland soldiers--and became a fugitive. The great esteem in which he was held prevented any one from hindering his flight. He got ashore at night among the baggage, and harbour lights not being numerous in those days, he could not easily be seen making his escape. Whenever he got his foot on land he set off, and during the remainder of the night he ran on flying from pursuit. In the day-time he hid himself under hedges and haystacks, and next night fled on. On the following day he was becoming exhausted, and he ventured to ask food at a wayside house. As his appearance was that of a poor soldier he got scanty fare, but he asked with civility for better food, and it was given to him. While he was taking it two strangers came in to the same room with him, and seeing his table well supplied while their own was poorly furnished, one of them said, “It is strange to see a Highland soldier with good food, while we have next to nothing,” and he went over and swept away all the meat from the soldier’s table to his own. The soldier called the mistress of the house and asked her who the men were. She said they were travellers, and she asked them why they took the meat from the soldier’s table, and told them if they had in a civil manner asked better food for themselves they would have got it, instead of raising a quarrel. The soldier said he would settle the quarrel; and finding a large iron hoop (_lùbach mhòr iaruinn_) at hand, he straightened it (a fathom in length) and flung it round the head of the one nearest to him, then twisted it in a noose and put the other one’s head in the remainder. He then drew them both out after him, and left them on the high road. “Now,” he said to them at parting, “you can travel on, for you will not come out of that tie till you are put in a smithy fire (_teallach gobhainn_).” He returned to pay the hostess, who said to him, “You do not appear to have much money.” “I have seven day’s pay of a soldier left, to pay my way,” he said. “Good youth,” she said, “here is double the amount to you, to take you on your journey, and I am sufficiently repaid by your ridding my house of disagreeable guests.” He took the gift thankfully, and turned his face northwards, to come to Scotland (_Albainn_). The next evening, he saw a fine house, to which he went in the dusk, and asked permission to warm himself. He was allowed to enter, and while standing with his back to the fire, the daughter of the house saw the handsome stranger, and she told her father. He desired food to be given to him, and that he was to be sent where he was. When she went with this request, the soldier asked who her father was. She said he was a nobleman (_àrd-dhuin’ uasal_). “A soldier is a bad companion for a nobleman,” he said. He went with her and saw her father, a grey-haired man in a chair, looking about him. The soldier was asked to sit down. After conversing some time, the old man said, “Young man, I have a daughter here who gives me much trouble to keep her in company. If you can play cards (_iomairt chairtean_), take my place at the table; there is a money reward (_duais airgid_) for every game won.” “I have no money,” the soldier replied. “I will lend you some,” she said. The play went on till he won six games, one after another. He then wanted to stop playing, and offered her back all the winnings, but she would only take the sum she lent him, saying the rest was rightly his own. He was to remain there that night, and was not to go away in the morning without telling them. Being afraid of pursuit, he went away at daybreak. He had not gone far when he knew that a horseman was coming after him. He waited to see if he was sent to get back the money he had won at the card table; but it was a messenger with a request to him from the nobleman to return to the castle. When he appeared the nobleman chid him for leaving the castle unknown to him, and told him how his daughter had fallen in love with him, and had resolved never to marry any one else. The soldier said, “A soldier is a poor husband for her.” The nobleman was convinced that he was not a common soldier whatever circumstances had placed him in that position, and said he preferred his daughter’s happiness to wealth or rank. He remained with them and married the daughter; and when he laid aside the soldier’s dress, there was not his equal to be seen in the new dress provided for him. He was esteemed for the dignity of his demeanour as much as he was admired for his fine appearance, and he lived, without remembrance of his past misadventures, in the enjoyment of happiness and prosperity. In those days news travelled slowly, newspapers appearing only once or twice a year in populous villages, and they did not reach remote places. In one which came to the nobleman at this time, there was an account of two men tied in an iron rod (_ann an slait iaruinn_) who were being exhibited at a market town in England. He went with the nobleman and his friends to see this wonder, the two who were in the union (_an dithis a bha ’s a’ chaigionn_). Whenever the men saw the Highlander they said to him “If you were dressed in the kilt, we would say you were the man who put us in this noose.” “If you had been more civil,” he said to them, opening the coil, “when you met me, you would not to-day be fools going through England with an iron rod round your necks.” On this he was cheered by the people, and if he was held in esteem before, he was much more on his return home, where he remained and became a great man (_duine mòr_), beloved and esteemed to the end of his life.

STORY OF DONALD GORM OF SLEAT.

Donald Gorm was at one time in the Island of Skye with his galley and crew. When returning home to Uist, the day they set out happened to become very stormy, and stress of weather obliged them to return and make straight for Dunvegan, the nearest place of shelter they could reach, where Donald Gorm was not very willing to go if he could in any way avoid landing there, since he had killed MacLeod of Dunvegan in a quarrel[18] which had arisen between them; but there was no alternative. On observing the boat coming and in danger of being lost MacLeod and the men of Dunvegan went to the shore to meet them, and when they were safely landed gave them a kindly reception. MacLeod took them with him to his castle and provided hospitably for them. Donald Gorm was invited to MacLeod’s own table, but refused, saying, “When I am away from home, like this, with my men, I do not separate from them but sit with them.” MacLeod said, “Your men will get plenty of meat and drink by themselves, and come you with me.” “I will not take food but with my men,” he said. When MacLeod saw that Donald Gorm was resolved not to be separated from his own men, and being unwilling to let him sit with his, he asked in preference Donald Gorm’s men to his own company. When dinner was over, drinking commenced, and MacLeod becoming warm said to Donald Gorm by way of remembrance, “Was it not you who killed my father?” “It has been laid to my charge that I killed three contemptible Highland lairds (_trì sgrogainich de thighearnan Gaidhealach_), and I do not care though I should put the allegation on its fourth foot to-night;” Donald Gorm said, drawing his dirk: “There is the dirk that killed your father; it has a point, a haft (_faillein_), and is sharp edged, and is held in the second best hand at thrusting it in the west.”[19] MacLeod thought he was the second best hand himself, and he said, “Who is the other?” Donald Gorm shifted the dagger to his left hand, raised it, and said, “There it is.” MacLeod became afraid and did not revive any other remembrance. When Donald Gorm was offered a separate room at night, he said, “Whenever I am from home I never have a separate bed from my men but sleep in their very midst until I return to my own house again.” They told him that his men had a sleeping-place provided for them, and that he would be much better accommodated by himself in the room prepared for him. When they saw he could not be persuaded to alter his determination of passing the night with his men, they made beds for himself and men in the kiln (_àth_).[20] The men, being wearied, slept without care, but Donald Gorm did not close an eye. He had a friend, somehow, in his time of need (_caraid éiginn air chor-eiginn_), in the place, who came secretly to the kiln where he and his men lay, and called to him, “Is it a time to sleep, Donald?” (_An cadal dhuit, a Dhòmhnuill?_) “What if it is?” (_’Dé na ’m b’ è?_), he answered from within the kiln. “If it is, it will not be” (_na ’m b’ è cha bhì_), said the one outside. “Waken men, and rise quickly,” he said to his company. They got up at once and with all speed went out, shutting the door of the kiln behind them when they were all through to the outside. They fled straight to the shore and launched their boat; and fortunately for them the wind had calmed and they were able to put out oars and row the galley some distance from the shore before their flight was observed. They had not gone far to sea before they saw the kiln on fire. “In place of your father and grandfather you have left yourself without a house, and Donald Gorm is where you cannot reach him,” Donald Gorm said, and he got safely home to his own house without hurt or injury (_gun bheud gun mhilleadh_).

NOTES:

[18] The quarrel in which MacLeod was killed was caused, it is said, by Donald Gorm’s having repudiated his wife, who was a daughter of MacLeod, in order to marry MacKenzie of Kintail’s sister, and MacLeod resenting the insult attacked Donald Gorm, who killed him and his two sons by throwing them over precipices in the Coolin hills in Skye where the skirmish took place. A different version of this incident is given in an early account of the “Troubles in the isles betwixt the Clan Donald and the Seil Tormot, the year 1601,” and is to the effect that the feud was carried on by “Sir Rory MacLeod of the Herries,” brother-in-law of Donald Gorm MacDonald of Sleat, the reprisals being fierce and frequent until the MacLeods were beaten at “Binguillin,” where a brother of Sir Rory and other chief men of his party were taken prisoners by Donald Gorm, but on a reconciliation taking place they were set at liberty. (See Gregory’s History of the Western Highlands and Isles, p. 295).

[19] In regard to the story and incident of the dagger, there was a song made, of which the writer has only been able to get the following verse:--

This is the dirk that killed your father,
And it has not refused you yet,
Farewell to you from the side of the channel.

“Holoagaich h-ol-ò
Sud a’ bhiodag a mharbh d’ athair,
’S cha do dhiùlt i ri thusa fhathast;
Soraidh leat o thaobh a’ chaoil.”

[20] Kiln (_àth_) here mentioned was in a thatched house about 17 feet long and 10 wide, the breast being about 5 feet deep, one being built in every township for preparing corn for grinding. Some peacefully disposed, observant old men (_bodaichean sicire foirfe_) built kilns in their own barns, to avoid being hindered or disturbed by their neighbours at their work.

DONALD GORM IN MOIDART.

The wife of the laird of Moidart (_Bean Mhac ’ic Ailein Mhùideart_) once took great umbrage at Donald Gorm. He came to Mac ’ic Ailein’s house, dressed, as was his custom, in a suit of cloth of dun (natural) coloured sheep’s wool, with a stout oaken cudgel in his hand. The laird’s wife happened to be the first person he met, and without any preliminary word he asked, “Is the lad Mac ’ic Ailein at home?” (_Bheil am balach Mac ’ic Ailein a stigh?_) “No, he is not, at this time,” she answered indignantly resenting his superciliousness. The next question he asked was, “Will it be a long time before he comes home?” “I don’t know,” she said. “You will tell him when he returns home, that I was asking for him here, and that The Herd is the name I get (_gur e am Buachaille a their iad rium_).” Mac ’ic Ailein came home soon afterwards, and his wife told him about the bold man who was enquiring. At her husband’s request she described the stranger’s appearance and dress, and how “The Herd” was the name he got. “Did you ask him in?” her husband asked. “No,” she said, “he was so impertinent.” “None but me will pay the penalty for that,” he said, “for he was Donald Gorm of Sleat” (_Dòmhnull Gorm Shléibhte_). Mac ’ic Ailein desired a horse to be saddled, and he rode at full speed after, and overtook, Donald Gorm at the inn. After much entreaty he was persuaded to return to Mac ’ic Ailein’s house. On their arrival his wife made ample apology, and the friendship was not broken.

Mac ’ic Ailein had to hold MacConnel, the Herd of the Isles (_Mac Chonnuill Buachaille nan Eileinean_) stirrup at every feast and fair.

THE BLACK RAVEN OF GLENGARRY.

The boundary line between the estates of Glengarry and Kintail was, for ages, a winding river (_amhuinn cham_, literally “crooked river”) which often overflowed its banks, changed its course, and made encroachments on the land, sometimes on one side and as frequently on the other, causing disputes and quarrels, in regard to their respective rights and limits, between the proprietors of the estates which it separated; the tenantry (_an tuath_) on each property taking the part of their chief when the strife ran high. In order to put an end to the quarrelling the Chief of Glengarry (_Mac ’Ic Alasdair_) at this time insisted on a straight line being drawn to mark the boundary between them, but MacKenzie of Kintail would not give his assent to any proposal for changing the old line which followed the course of the river, and the feud broke out afresh (_bha an tabaid air a bonn a rithist_). Glengarry had three sons, and in the skirmish that took place on that occasion the two eldest sons were killed. The youngest having been left at home on account of his youth, escaped the fate of his brothers. He became known afterwards as the Black Raven of Glengarry. When he grew up to manhood his father said to him one day, “An insulting message (_fios tàmailteach_) has been sent to me from Kintail about the boundary line, and I must accept the challenge and gather the men, and you must go with us.” “If it is fighting you have in view,” said the Raven, “you must do it yourself, for me; my two dear brothers were killed through your foolish quarrels, and I would have been killed also if I had been old enough to be with them at the time, but since I can now understand how trifling the cause is, I will let yourselves be fighting.” His father could only gather his men and go to the contest without him. When they were out of sight, the Raven put on his best suit of armour and took several turns round the hill to elude the notice of any straggler who might have been left, and then set off at his utmost speed to get in advance of his father and men. Before evening closed he was at the head of Loch Duich, where he passed the night. Next day he procured a plaid of MacKenzie tartan which he wrapped round him to disguise the red badge (_suaicheantas dearg_) of Glengarry, and made his way to the enemy’s headquarters at Donan Isle (_Eilean donnan_), where the Kintail men were rapidly gathering to the fray. It was customary in those days to set a large long table (_bòrd mòr fada_) supplied with abundance of food and drink for the entertainment of the men who assembled from far and near. The Chief sat at the head, and every man on taking his place stuck his dirk (_biodag_) in the edge of the table in front of him before sitting down. The Black Raven got in among the men unnoticed, and when the Chief of Kintail came in, he said to the man who was beside him, “I wish to sit next to Kintail.” His appearance did not betray him, and no one objected to his request, but when he was taking the seat beside the Chief, he threw MacKenzie backwards on the ground and put his foot upon him to keep him down, and the point of his dirk resting on the breast of the prostrate man. His plaid having slipped aside, the red (_an dearg_) was exposed, and in an instant a hundred dirks were ready to riddle him (_g’ a dheanamh ’n a chriathar-tholl_); but he said, commanding them, “The moment I am approached, your Chief will be a dead man.” “If I fall,” he said to the Chief, “it will be on the hilt of my own weapon, and you will never rise--its point is on your breast, and any attempt to take my life imperils yours. I did not come here for war but for peace, and unless you will consent to lay aside all animosities, and solemnly promise never to renew this quarrel, your life is forfeited. I have only to press the hilt of this dagger, on which my hand rests, and whatever fate awaits me you will have no more power to do harm.” Kintail agreed to make peace, and gave his oath twice on the cold iron of the dirk on his breast that he would faithfully keep his promise. The Black Raven, after sharing in the hospitalities provided for the occasion, returned home, the Chief and men of Kintail accompanying him part of the way. When he met his father with his band of fighting men, he told them to return home, that he had done alone more than they had ever been able to do with all their boasting and fighting; he had put an end to their fighting, and got a guarantee for a lasting peace without one drop of bloodshed, and henceforth if he found any one among them making or renewing the quarrel, he would give the Chief of Kintail full liberty to treat them as he saw proper.

The friendship then made between the Chieftains was ever afterwards steadily maintained by them, and the Raven became one of the most distinguished men in the service of his country at that time.

CAILLEACH POINT, OR THE OLD WIFE’S HEADLAND,

Is one of the stormiest and most dangerous headlands on the west coast of Scotland. From base to top it is rocky, and for a considerable distance on each side.

It faces the Island of Coll, and commands a view of the Point of Ardnamurchan, from which it is distant about seven or eight miles. At its base there is a strong tidal channel which has never been known to be dry at the lowest ebb tide. From its highest point the spectre of “Hugh of the Little Head” is said to cross on horseback to Coll to give warning, as he is wont to do, to any descendants of the house of Lochbuie of their approaching end. Hugh is said to have had his head cut off by a broad sword in one of the clan skirmishes of old times. He has his head in a blaze of fire, and the tracks of his horse seen on the snow shew only three legs, and the terror of children and credulous people is increased by his being said to drag a chain after him. To the south of the Point there is a cave, which becomes accessible only when the tide has half fallen. Its Gaelic name is _Uamh Bhuaile nan Drogh_. Wild pigeons tenant it, and are seen emerging when the tide has fallen. The cooing sound of the birds heard under water seems to have led to the name, which means, the Cave of the Cattle-fold of the fairies, and it is noticeable that the word _Drogh_ denotes that it first received its name from a Teutonic source, very possibly from the race that came ultimately to tenant the Orkney islands. It is said, however, that Dutchmen possessed the fisheries on the west coast of Scotland, and it has been suggested that the word _Drogh_ is from Dragnet, which they kept in the cave. The tides which sweep past this point render it more difficult and dangerous to get past in a head wind than even the Point of Ardnamurchan, of which the dangerous character is well known. To the north of the Point in the direction of Croig in Mull, there is an indentation which is called _Achlais na Caillich_ (the old woman’s oxter or armpit) where salmon nets are set. It has been characterised as not the armpit of a smooth woman (_Achlais na mnà mìne_) and the story which is said to have given its name to the Headland, is, that an old woman was gathering shell-fish in the neighbourhood when the tide began to make, and the woman finding no other means of escape made a last effort by climbing up the rocks. When at the top, and almost out of danger, she said “I am safe now, in spite of God and men” (_Tha mi tearuinte nis ge b’ oil le Dia ’s le daoine_). She was converted into a stone forming part of the rock distinctly to be seen from the highest point of _Cailleach_. It is said that the figure of the old woman was very distinctly to be seen at first, and hence the name of the Headland, but time has done its own work and the figure is not now so unmistakable. Even the origin of the name is only known to those who are natives of the neighbourhood.

On one occasion, the writer being himself ensconced under the side deck of a smack, then plying to the island, heard a Tiree boatman, who was conversing with a minister from the south of Argyleshire, and had no fancy for the overly pious talk of the too-zealous stranger, remarking that there was an old woman here and when she gave a snort, she could be heard over in Coll. [“_Tha Cailleach an so ’s trà nì i sreothart cluinnidh iad ’an Cola i._”] The minister said that that was most extraordinary, and as it now began to rain the boatman began to exhort him to go below, and professed much regard for the minister’s health. At last he got rid of him.

A TRADITION OF ISLAY.