Chapter IV: Part 4

The western isles according to tradition were thinly inhabited for a long period of years, after the defeat and expulsion of the Norsemen. These invaders had left few of the natives alive and the land remained desolate. The first man then who took possession of the country was powerful John MacConnal who was called, the shepherd of the isles, and the first of the lords of the isles (_Iain mòr Maconuil ris an abairteadh buachaille nan eileanan, b’e ceud tighearna nan eileanan_). He had seven sons, among whom, when they came of age, he began to divide his possessions, but the Highlands and isles being too limited in his opinion for division among so many, he went away to Ireland with one of his sons, to overthrow one or more of the five kings by whom that country was then governed, and put his son in possession of any territory he might acquire in the contest, leaving his eldest son in Islay, which was the first of the isles possessed by him. In this enterprise he succeeded in seizing that part of Ireland then under the authority of the Earl of Antrim, and gave it to his son, whose nephew came from Islay, when some years had passed, to see him in Antrim. This nephew during one of those visits fell in love with a noblewoman of the country whom he asked in marriage. His proposal being agreed to, he was requested, as was then the custom, to name the dowry he wanted with her. His request was 700 men who had nicknames (_far-ainmeannan_) to take with him to Islay. In those days, it is said, that great men and nobles only had pseudonyms and he took this method of getting these and their followers to repeople the isles, and their descendants are yet to be found in many parts of the country as well as in the islands.

NOTES:

Islay is separated from the island of Jura by the sound of Islay and lies west of Cantyre in Argyleshire. Its extent is 25 miles long and 17 miles broad. The south west point is called the Rhinns (_an roinn Ileach_). The island is hilly and penetrated by an arm of the sea, Lochindaal, which is 12 miles long and 8 miles broad. There are good crops grown on the island and cattle are reared and fish is abundant on its coasts. A small quantity of various kinds of ore is found throughout the island, but its distilleries are its chief industry at the present day. It was in former times the chief residence of the Lords of the Isles, and the ruins of castles, forts, and chapels are numerous and interesting as records of a past age.

The Beatons or Bethunes and MacLarty are said to have been among those who came from Ireland with _MacConuil_. The latter being descendants of grey haired Niel (_Nial Liath_) who was interpreter (_fear-labhairt_) for Maconnal, hence the name. It is told of Niel, that being at one time surrounded by his enemies in a battle, he was commanded to deliver his sword. “If I do,” he said, “it will be by the point” (_ma liubhras, ’sann an aghaidh a ranna_), and cleaving his way through them he escaped and joined his companions.

After his settlement in the western island MacConnal (_Iain Mòr MacConuill_) is said to have divided his possessions among his seven sons by sending one of them John (_Iain_) to Glencoe, hence the patronymic Clan of the son of John of Glencoe (_Clann ’ic Iain Ghleann-a-comhunn_), another son Ronald (_Raonull_) was sent to Keppoch (_a’ Cheapaich_), one Allan (_Ailean_) was sent to Moidart (_Mùideart_). These were settled on the mainland in the counties of Argyle and Inverness, while the island of Skye was given to another son, Grim Donald of Sleat, (_Dòmhnull gorm Shléibhte_). Another son got the smaller isles, and another went to Ireland and became Earl of Antrim while the heir remained in Islay and held the adjacent islands as well as portions of the mainland. Of the 700 who returned with his son from Antrim to people the islands after the expulsion of the Norsemen, 22 were heads of families. The person from whom the writer heard this, now above 70 years of age, was certain that Beaton or Bethune was one of the names, but he had forgotten the others.

FAIR LACHLAN, SON OF FAIR NEIL OF DERVAIG.

(_Lachunn fionn mac Neill bhàin, Fear Dhearbhaig._)

At the time when Lachlan Kattanach was Chief of MacLean (_ri linn Mhic-’illeathain Lachunn Cattanach na gruaige_), his wife (_a bhantighearna_) dreamt about an Irish chief of the name of William O’Power (?) (_Uilleam O’ buaidh_) and in the same way, at the same time, this Irish Chief dreamt about her. It happened then that they began to communicate with each other. (At that time more trade was carried on with Ireland by these Western Isles than with any other place.) One day MacLean discovered that his wife was keeping on a correspondence, unknown to him, with the Irish Chief, and was much distressed about this injury to his honour. In order to test his wife’s affection for her secret lover, he went to her with a penknife in his hand and said, “There is a present _O’ buaidh_ has sent you.” She looked at the knife and said,

“My darling who sent me the knife
I weary at his delay in coming across the sea,
And may I not enjoy health
If I do love it better than the hand that holds it.”

(M’ eudail ’chuir thugam an sgian
’S fhada leam a thriall thar muir,
’S na ’n a mheall mi mo shlàint’
Mur docha leam i na’n lamh ’sa bheil).

MacLean was then convinced of his wife’s disgrace, and went away and sent for his kinsman, Fair Lachlan (_Lachunn fionn_) who was then at Hynish, and who, on receiving a message from his Chief, went immediately to Island House. On reaching, MacLean said to him, “I sent for you to go to Ireland; you are a clever man and you have seven sons, go and bring me the head of O’Power, and any crime you may commit, or any injustice you may from this time do to any one, will be over looked by me (_tha thu ’n ad dhuine tapaidh ’s seachdnar mhac agad, falbh ’s thoir g’ am ionnsuidh ceann Uilleam O’ buaidhe ’s aona chron na anaceart sam bith nì thu theid a mhathadh dhuit leamsa_). Next day, _Lachunn fionn_ with his sons set off in the galley, and before sundown he was in Islay. The following day he was in Ireland, and asked the first person he met for the man he was tracing (_a bha e air a luirg_). “If you wish to see him,” the person said, “he is coming this way, in a coach drawn by two white horses, and no one in Ireland has that but himself.” The old man then went on to try and meet him, and after going a short distance he saw him coming towards him to meet him (_chaidh an sean duine air aghaidh feuch an tachradh e air, ’s an ceann ceum na dhà chunnaic e e tighinn ’na choinneamh ’s ’na chòmhail_). When he came near, O’Power (_O’ buaidh_) commanded him to stop, and said, “I see you are a stranger in the place?” “Indeed,” he replied, (_seadh ars’ esan_). “Whence have you come?” the Chief asked, (_Co ás a thàinig thu?_). “I came from Tiree,” he answered. “Do you know the lady of MacLean there?” “I know her well,” he said. “Will you bring her a message from me?” (_An toir thu fios uam g’ a h-ionnsuidh?_) “I will,” he said, (_bheir, ars’ esan_). The chief there and then put the message in order, and put his head out of the coach to deliver it, but the other, while taking it with the one hand, struck off his head with the other hand. (_Sin fhéin chuir e ’n teachdaireachd air doigh ’s chuir e mach a cheann g’ a toirt dà, ’s ’nuair bha e ’ga gabhail leis an aona laimh thilg e dheth an ceann leis an laimh eile_). The man-servant was stupified (lit. went astray), (_chaidh an gille air seacharan_), and Fair Lachlan got an opportunity (_fhuair e fàth_) of taking the head with him to the galley with which he set sail (_leig e ri cuain di_) and was in Islay on his return journey that evening. Next day after (_maireach ’na dheighinn sin_) he was in Tiree, and went early in the day to Island House (_do ’n eilean_). Finding, on reaching, that MacLean and his wife were at breakfast, he went in where they were and put the head of the Irish Chief on the end of the table, with the face towards MacLean’s wife. She looked at it and fell down stone dead at the side of the table (_sheall i air ’s thuit i fuar marbh aig taobh a’ bhùird_). Some time after this Fair Lachlan’s sons were taking peats home from Moss to Hynish. There were five of them with seven horses, which were fastened together, and went on one after another, having a sort of deep basket (_cliabh_) slung on each side of each horse for the conveyance of burdens. On account of Big Dewar of Balemartin, who was so fierce, (_co fiadhaich_) they could not take the straight way by Balemartin to Hynish, but had to take the more rugged path by Hynish hill, where, at _Creag nan cliabh_ (Creel rock) the footpath was so narrow that on these occasions a person was in waiting to be in readiness to take the creels off the horses and carry them past the rock. At that time, there was a mill past Balviceon, with a bridge across the dam which had to be lifted before sundown, and on their way they had to pass across the bridge. It happened on this occasion that the young men, by their own folly (_le ’n amaideachd fhein_), were later than usual of returning, and the bridge was withdrawn; and with the speed with which they were going on, they did not observe that the bridge was lifted, and the foremost of the horses went headlong into the dam and was choked (_air a thachdadh_). The lads made their way home, and told their father how the miller had taken away the bridge, and what had happened to them. He said, “If my horse was choked on his account (_air a thàillibh_), the same thing will be done to him to-night yet”; and that was what happened. He and his sons went back the same way, step by step, (_air a’ cheart cheum_), and they caught the poor man while he was asleep (_rug iad air an duine ’na leabaidh_) and took him with them and hung him on the hillock of the cross (_bac na croiche_), opposite Island House. When a servant went in early next morning to kindle a fire in the room where MacLean was, he asked what sort of day it was. The servant said that it was a good day, but that a strange sight was to be seen (_ni a tha cuir ioghnadh mór orm ri fhaicinn_). “What is that?” the Chief asked. “It is a man hung on the hillock up yonder (_duine air a chrochadh air a’ chroich shuas ud_). MacLean said, as he rose up, “Who or what person dared do this without my permission? (_Co an aona duine ’san dùthaich aig an robh ’chridh leithid so dheanamh gun chuir ’nam cheadsa?_) When he saw the deed that was done, he shed bitter tears, and said that no one had done this but Fair Lachlan (_cha d’ rinn duine riamh so ach Lachunn fionn_). “It was in the agreement I made with him when he brought me the man’s head from Ireland.” This was the last hanging that was done in the island (_b’e so an crochadh mu dheireadh a rinneadh ’s an eilean_).

LEGENDARY HISTORY.

PRINCESS THYRA OF ULSTER AND HER LOVERS.

A STORY OF LOCHMAREE.[21]

At one time the King of Denmark is said to have sent his son to the Scottish court along with six others (_seisear eile_). They landed in Caithness, where, as they came chiefly for sport, they began to look for deer and other wild animals, and to enquire where they were to be found. They were told that all animals of the chase had become scarce since more people had come to that part, but that in the neighbouring parts of the country, especially in Ross-shire, they were still numerous, and if they went there they would get abundant sport. They went, and while they remained lived in a house of the MacKenzies’, near Lochmaree. One day then, when following deer in the hill, the young prince got separated from his companions, who each and all found their way safely home. When he came in sight of the house, being fatigued, he sat down by the roadside and fell asleep. He was awakened by the sound of voices, and on looking he saw two men, one of whom was young and the other old, coming on the road towards him with a young woman walking between. He got up, and as they were coming nearer he was making out that he never saw a more beautiful woman. He stood before them and spoke. The old man said, “You are doing wrong in delaying us on our way.” “Methinks,” said the young prince, “that I am not doing any thing out of the way, nor have I spoken a wrong word.” The old man got angry, and calling him rough names said he was ill-bred. “That was not the way in which I was taught,” the prince answered, “I have the blood of the kings of Denmark in my veins, and I am inclined to put your head as low as your shoes for your ill words (_air son do dhroch bheul_) which I have not deserved.” When the old man heard this he became afraid, and made excuses for the warmth of temper he had shewn, but said he was under vows to protect the girl from all intrusion, “the reason being that she is with us under the vows of the church (_fo naomhachadh na h-eaglais_), by her father’s commands,” and told him that they came ashore from the monastery of Isle-maree and were to return before nightfall. “I would like well to know who the maiden is whom you befriend,” said the young prince. “The name of the daughter is,” the old man answered, “Princess Thyra (_Deorath_) of the house of Ulster in Ireland--and let us now pass.” In the parting the young prince said to the maiden, “As this has been our first meeting, so I fear it is to be our last: Farewell!” “I do not say,” she answered. He went home, but, after some days, returned to the same place expecting to see the same company, but no one came ashore from the islet that day. The next time he went he waited two days in vain, and the third time three days, and returned home in the same way ill-pleased at his mischance. He then resolved to go to the isle if there was a way of getting to it. He was told that a man on the other side of the loch had a boat, and he went to him and got him to go with him. On landing, the man pointed out to him the way to the monastery, and told him that he would come to a well, which he was not to pass till he drank of its water; that the well was famed for its efficacy in every malady to which mankind is subject, and especially in restoring those who had lost their reason; “and beside the well,” said the man, “there is a tree with a hollow in its side (_slochd ’n a taobh_), and no one goes past it without putting something of more or less value in.” The youth went ashore, and, heedless of tree and well, reached the house and demanded admittance at the first door he met. When asked what brought him, or why he came, he said he came to see the Irish princess. He was told that could not be (_ni nach gabhadh deanamh_). He then asked if there was any one in authority of whom he could make the request, and was told there was the oldest of rank in the monastery, who, when he came, said, “No! you cannot see the princess.” The young man then told who he was, and said, “If I want her for my wife and she consents, can you prevent the union?” “We will leave the matter to her own will,” the old man answered. She came gladly, and the prince spent that day on the islet. Before he left she said, “I have a doubt in this matter.” “What is that?” he asked. “It is that I never saw you but once before now, neither did you see me, and if love comes quickly, it may go as quickly.” “You know that from yourself,” he said. “No,” she answered. He told her to look at the evening star, which was to be seen in the south-western sky, and said, “As truly as that star shines on yonder hill, so truly do I love you.” “I have another doubt,” she said. “Your doubts are very many,” he said. Her doubt was, that Red Hector of the hills, as he was called from being among the hills day and night, would be a dangerous foeman if he met him on his way. He returned, landed, and having cause, as he thought, to be pleased with events, was going on joyously and light-hearted, whistling as he went along. He was not far on his way when an arrow passed close to his face; the next one stuck in his bonnet. He stood looking about him and saw a big man standing beside a rock that was at the roadside before him. “What sort of man are you, when you are going to make a target of me?” the prince said. “Have you never heard of Red Hector of the hills (_Eachann Ruadh nan cnoc_)? If you have not, you now see him and will feel his skill. There is a matter to settle between us which can never be done but in one way, and that is, that you kill me or I kill you.” They took their swords, one each (_claidheamh an t-aon_), blood was shed; the prince then asked if there was no other way of settling the matter except by bloodshed. “Do not waste speech (_Na bi ’cosg do sheanachais_); that you kill me or I kill you, there is no other way,” he said, and struck the prince on the side with his sword and sorely wounded him. He fell and his enemy fled. The wounded man kept his hand on the wound, but whenever he moved the blood spurted from it, and he was passing the night in that way till his tongue became swollen in his mouth. In the midst of his agony he heard the drip of a streamlet in the hollow underneath where he lay, and tried to move himself towards it, but could not, though he made every effort. At last he thought it was better to bleed to death than die of thirst, and by dragging himself along he reached the water, but before he got to drink of it he fainted and lay beside the streamlet till next day, when those, the humane people (_na daoine cneasda_), who came ashore in the boat heard his moaning, and recognising him, took him back to the islet, where he remained unconscious for many weeks, during which his own men, who had been brought to the isle, and the princess attended him. When he recovered and knew that the maiden’s constant care and watchfulness had helped to restore him to life, he expressed much gratitude. “When you are up and well,” she said, “it will be time to thank me.” He kept telling her every day how he would take her to Denmark. One day then a ship was seen coming, from which a boat was sent ashore to take away the maiden, whose father lay dying. “Will you return?” he said. “I will return,” she said. “And you will not forget me among your own people.” “Nothing but death will prevent my return,” she said. She went away, and nothing was heard of her for many days. In his impatience the prince sent men from day to day to the top of the highest hills to look for the ship. At last they saw three ships coming, and the first had the royal flag of Ireland in its topmast. Some time before the maiden left the islet, the prince one day when on land met an old man who intercepted him; his men bade the intruder keep to one side of the road, but the man refused to be put aside, and the prince then asked what his business was with him. “Do not speak so gruffly,” the old man said, “I have come to you, as I am in need of shelter, to ask if you will take me into your service while you are here.” “My burden is on others at present,” the prince said, “and little an old man like you with a staff in his hand can do to help me. Have you a house or home?” “I had till yesterday; to-day I have nothing. I had house, wife, son, land, cattle, and yesterday every beast that I had was lifted, except a stray sheep, and my son went in search of it and fell over the rocks (_chaidh am balach leis na creagan_) and was killed. When his mother heard what had happened to him she went to the place, and on seeing her son dead she leapt in the sea and was drowned, and I am left alone. If you will take me with you I will do you more service in the hills than a younger man can do.” He said his name was MacKenzie (_Dùghall MacChoinnich_). The prince took him to be with them while they remained in the isle.

When the ships were seen the prince went to the highest summit of the hills, taking with him, among the rest, the old man, who on their way said, “Delay (_air do shocair_), till I tell you my dream.” “I care naught for dreams,” the other said. “Will you not listen, for I dreamt the same dream three nights after each other; and it was that she was dead.” “We wish to get joyous news and you have given us instead news of sorrow.” The old man then said, “I will go to the ship, and when I reach, if all is well you will see a red signal, and if sorrow awaits you it will be a black one.” He went, and on reaching, she was there. She knew him and asked if all was well. He told her, and she said, “He is impatient for news.” He then persuaded the princess, against her own will and the advice of those around her, to shew the death-signal, saying the joy of seeing her living would compensate her lover for the deception. When the signal was seen by those on land, the prince said he could no longer live, and took his dagger from its sheath and killed himself. When the princess reached the shore, those who met her told her how her lover, believing that she was dead, had killed himself. She asked where he was, and said that no seen or unseen power could prevent her from taking a last farewell, and that she would go alone and do no injury to herself. When she was going in where the dead body lay, she noticed that some one was following her, and turning she saw that the intruder was the old man, “Wretched Dugall (_a dhroch Dhùghaill_), what evil advice you gave me.” “That is not my name,” he said, “I am Red Hector of the hills, and this is my revenge!” and he killed her with his dirk. He then disappeared and was never seen or heard of in the country after that time.

NOTES:

[21] Lochmaree is in the west of Ross-shire. It lies S.E. and N.W., and has 24 islets throughout its length of about 18 miles. Its breadth is from one to two miles, and its depth prevents its water from freezing.

GARLATHA.

A TRADITION OF HARRIS.

At one time it is said the outermost of the western isles formed three separate and independent possessions; the northern part of the Long Island (_an t-eilean fada_),[22] Lewis (_Leòdhais_), was held by one Cenmal (_Ceannamhaol_ [baldhead]), who was a king, while the southern portion, Harris (_na h-Earra_), was owned by a prince; and another king, one named Keligan [thin one], possessed Uist, which is further south. In this way Lewis and Uist had each a king, while there was only a prince in Harris. This prince, who was famed for his courage and bravery, was held in great esteem by those on his land for the good advice (_na comhairlean dealbhach_) they readily got from him and the benefits he conferred on them. He discouraged bickerings and jealousy (_farmad_) among his subordinates and neighbours, and spread among them a knowledge of many useful arts. He encouraged manual labour as well as manly exercise and the recitation of poems, romance, etc. His wife, Garlatha, was not less namely for her goodness to those around her, among whom she promoted thrifty and industrious habits, and taught the use and methods of preparing different kinds of roots, grain and plants, for food and healing, and to be kind and tender to the weak and infirm, and to live good lives. In this way the people on their land were contented with their condition and sought no change. Garlatha died, it is said, about 800 A.D.--a long time ago, but whatever it was, she went away, (and it was not to be helped), leaving an infant daughter who was named after her mother, Garlatha. As the girl grew up it was seen that she inherited her mother’s good gifts, and the people were equally well pleased with her. In time she began to be spoken about and heard of, and was sought in marriage by numerous suitors. The king who ruled in Lewis was eager in pursuit of her (_’an tòir oirre_), and crossed over to see her. The ruler (_fear-riaghlaidh_) of Uist came on the same errand. One day then her father said to her, “Daughter, I wish to see you married, before the end of my life comes, to a good man, and I am looking to see which of those men who come to see you is the most suitable, and I see that it will suit you best to take him who is in Lewis.” His daughter preferred the one who owned Uist, but by her father’s advice word was sent to the possessor of Lewis to come and that he would get her. He came, and being well pleased with his reception every arrangement was made, and they were married. Afterwards the bride said to a maid, “You will go in to the entertainment (_fleadh_) and among the company: I am going to hide myself.” This was done, and the company sat at the feast without the bride, for whose coming a long delay was made. When it was seen that she would not return, the question of what had become of her or where she was, was asked of every one, but no one knew. The maid was asked, but she had not any knowledge or tale (_fios no sgeul_) to tell of where the lost one was to be found. The time was passing _(bha ’n ùineachd ’ruith_) and search was made outside for her, but she was not found. Then they looked for her from place to place, where it was possible to find her, but without success. The night passed, leaving the feast untouched and the guests cheerless. Next day the search was renewed along the shores and among the hills, and in every direction from day to day, till there was not a spot between Barra Head and the Butt of Lewis where a bird could sleep, that was not searched, but there was no trace of her (_cha d’ fhuaireadh riamh i, cha d’ fhuaireadh idir i_). The father continued to wander about, searching in vain, for many years after all hope of finding her was dead, till at last he was seen to turn every leaf he met with the staff in his hand, and even to look under ragweed (_buaghallan_). He died, and she was not found. The place, Harris, was then 200 years without any one to own it (_thug an t-àite sin dà cheud bliadhna gun duine ann_). MacLeod (_fear Mac Leòid_) then took possession of the country and began to build new houses; the old dwellings had become uninhabitable (_air dol fàs_); the roof had fallen in (_thuit an ceann ’n am broinn_). When clearing out one of these an old chest was found, and on lifting it the lower part remained on the ground, with the skeleton of a woman resting in it, each bone according to its place (_cnàimh a réir cnàimh_), and by its side the wedding-ring, as new as it was on the day it was put on her finger, with the name “Garlatha” engraved on it, and from that the story came.

NOTES:

[22] The Long Island includes the whole of the land between the Butt of Lewis and Barra Head.

STORIES ABOUT THE FAIRIES.

THE TRADITION OF A HOUSEWIFE AND HER FAIRY VISITOR.

The incidents of this tradition are said to have happened in Lewis, but the readiness with which similar stories are appropriated and localised makes it improbable that the circumstances occurred in any special locality. In this instance the person from whom the story was heard being a native of Lewis will account for the incidents of the story having been said to have taken place in that Island. The story is as follows:--

The wife of a tenant farmer, who lived with his family in an extremely remote and hilly rough district, was frequently left alone in the house, as she had no daughters, while her husband and sons were away at the labour of the farm, or fishing. It happened one day after they had left, that the housewife having finished her housework, sat as usual at the spinning-wheel to spin thread for cloth (_clò_) for their clothing. She had not long begun her labour, when, happening to look towards the door, she saw a little woman of reddish appearance coming in at the door with a dog before and one after her. “Woman,” she said, “you are spinning.” “I am,” the housewife answered. “Will you give me a drink of water?” she said. “Take it yourself,” the housewife said. “The water is good, where is the well?” she asked. “It is down,” said the one who was in, “in the opening of the hollow of the glen (_aig dorus ’an lag a’ ghlinne_).” The fay woman (_a’ bhean-shìth_) then asked the housewife to lend her a small cauldron, and the other woman believing her to be sister-in-law or some other relative she did not know of the wife of her nearest neighbour, who lived far distant from them and was married to an Ardnamurchan woman, said to her, “There is a table there with several utensils (_caigionn choireachan_) on its shelf; take with you any of them that will answer.” When she brought it, she asked for the suspender (_bùlas_) and lid. The moment she got them she fitted them in and told the dogs that were with her to take that with them. The dogs immediately caught the three-legged pot and took it with them. When her husband came home the housewife said, “I think there is a stranger with our neighbours,” and told him about her visitor. “Perhaps,” her husband said, “she is the sister-in-law; it was time some one came to see the wife, for none of her friends have been since she came here.” “I never saw the sort of dogs she had, ever here,” his wife said, and described to him the dogs and how they were different altogether from sheep-dogs. “Our neighbours have only one dog and it is a sheep-dog,” he said. This day passed and another and the third, but the cauldron was not returned. The housewife then sent one of her sons to ask the neighbours to return the loan. These said that they did not get a loan of anything, as they did not require it, having more cauldrons and kettles than was required by themselves, and that no strangers had come or were with them. The housewife was at her wit’s end and did not know in the world or time to come (_uile bheatha na dìlinn_) what to think about the matter. On the fifth day, however, the self-same one returned with the cauldron. “I am sure,” she said, “that you were missing the cauldron.” “I was,” the housewife replied, “not from any need I had of it at the time, but because I did not know who the one was that took it away.” “I am sure you did not know who took it,” said the one that came in, “but I knew you too well; many a day you sang songs above my house (_’s iomadh latha ’sheinn thu luinneag air mullach an tigh agam_).” “Will you sit?” said the one who was spinning. “I will sit and tell my story if you are sure that no one will come in while I am here.” As was customary in those days the byre adjoined the dwelling-house, whatever kind of wall (_sgàth-balla_) separated them, and one of the cows that had calved and was in the byre, made a disturbance (_straighlich_). The next look the woman took she was alone. On her husband’s return, she said, “You may not leave me here alone; one of the children must be left with me or I will be where you are;” and she told him about the second time her strange visitor came and how suddenly she had disappeared. The goodman then went for advice to one, the minister, who he knew was able to give him good counsel. On telling about the undesirable visitor his wife had, the advice he got was that he was to pull down his house as quickly as possible, and to put it at the other end of the land; “and when you will pull down your house, every particle (_h-uile pioc_) of the thatch that covers it is to be burnt within the rafters on which nine cogfuls of sea-water or charmed (_naoi cuachan sàile no uisge coisrigte_) is to be poured.” The goodman returned home with this advice. When his wife heard it she said that she must get women to help her to finish the cloth she was working at, and it was agreed to give her the help she required. On account of the dampness of the houses the method of keeping the thread and wool dry was by hanging them up to the rafters. Next morning the goodwife missed a pile of wool from its place, but believing that it was her son, who often played pranks on her, who had removed it, she said nothing regarding its disappearance. Next day, however, she was astonished at seeing her late strange visitor with another and a taller one coming in. “I am sure,” said the little redhued one, “you were missing the bag of wool We took it with us to help you, and there it is brought home made into thread, and your own thread that we took with us for a pattern (_leth-bhreac_); and any time you have thread to spin, we are ready to help you.” The goodwife was overcome with fear and could not utter a word to them. They went away, and she never saw themselves or their shadow (_an dubh no’n dath_) ever afterwards. The house was taken down and another was built where they chose it to be, but after some time an old man saw five of the fairy company leaving the well at the foot of the glen, each carrying a vessel full of water, and the place where he saw them going in and lost sight of them, was afterwards quarried, and the stone taken from it was employed to build a church that stands at the present day. An opening that was met with, in the quarry, where human bones were found, was supposed to be the place where the fairy band entered their dwelling.

THE WISE WOMAN OF DUNTULM AND THE FAIRIES.

A Lord of the Isles, MacConnal (_Buachaille nan Eileinean_), long ago had two sons, but only one could get the estate at his death. When that happened the eldest son said one day to the youngest, “You are now left without anything, but, that you may not be altogether portionless, go to Duntulm and you will get there a piece of land that you will have to yourself.” The lands of Duntulm, in the northern part of the Island of Skye, were at that time occupied by a prosperous tenantry, consisting chiefly of crofters and the holders of a few larger farms. The youngest brother was told that the rent he would get from these tenants would maintain him, and he was to build a house and marry a wife. He agreed to go to Duntulm, where he was not a long time settled till a claim was made on his land for the king’s dues, the crown tax being in proportion to the amount of land which he held. The first time the tax (_a’ chìs_) was asked, he said, in answer to the demand which was made, “I will not pay any tax. Why should I pay it? What right has the king to get it?” An order was sent to him every year for payment of the tax, but if it was, for six years he did not pay any of it (_cha do phàidh e sgillinn_). At last the king sent fifty soldiers and one officer to take the rent from him in spite of him (_thar ’amhaich_), and since he would pay to neither king nor soldier, the lands were taken from him and they were now attached to the crown. The king was receiving the revenue, and a Skye carl (_bodach Sgitheanach_) called John Donaldson MacWilliam (_Iain Mac Dhòmhnuil’ic Uilleim_) was appointed a factor to collect the rents from the crofters. He lived sixteen miles from Duntulm, among the crofts, where he went twice a year to gather the tax. MacConnal’s castle was built on a precipitous bank, on the west side of which there was a big pit into which every high tide sent a flow of water that kept it always full, forming a deep pool (_glumag_) that sometimes proved dangerous to the unwary. One day it happened that whatever a crofter, one Macrury, was doing at the castle, he fell headlong into the pool, and however it was, whether he was killed by the fall or drowned, he was found dead next day anyhow. He left two sons who were not of age to help their widowed mother, for whom much sympathy was felt by her neighbours on account of her being left so helpless (_bha i air a fàgail cho lom_). Next spring after this the two lads were drowned in a boat with which they were bringing sea-ware home, and being now alone she could not work her croft nor pay her rent. When everything was spent, and she had only one cow left of her fold of cattle, the factor came for the tax. On reaching the township he took with him a carle, friendly to himself, to the widow’s house, where the neighbours had gathered to ascertain the object of their visit. When the factor was told that the poor woman had no means to pay her rent, he asked if she had no cattle. She said that she had only one cow and that it was grazing at some distance from the house. He asked it to be brought where he was, and when he saw it he said, “It is a pity there are not more of the kind.” Being the only one, it had got all the attention and was in good condition. She said she had no other. He said, “We will keep this one for the dues.” It was taken away from the widow and put in a field that was surrounded by a stone wall, near the castle, along with the small red pony which the factor had with him. While he was in search of some one to drive it away, and taking his dinner in the carle’s house, the young men of Duntulm climbed over the wall of the field, though high, and got out the animals, which they drove to the shore, where a boat was in readiness in which they were taken to the islet of Fladda (_Fladda ’chuain_), two miles off. The men put them ashore there, and had their boat drawn up in Duntulm Bay before the factor and his companion returned to look for their property and found the park empty. On asking the men, who had again gathered, if they knew how the animals had escaped or where they were, they said there was no gap in the wall known to them, and that the only person likely to know of their whereabouts was a gifted woman who lived near the castle, in search of whom two of them went. They found her at home, on reaching the height where her house was, and told her all that had occurred, and how she was to go with them and say that the cattle had been charmed away to some wonderful place. Isabel said that she was not well prepared to go that day. The men asked what preparation she lacked (_’dé an cion dòigh a bh’ oirre_). She then asked for one of the men’s broad bonnets, and when she got it, rose, and leaving her hair, which was becoming grey, streaming over her shoulders, she put it on, and tying a goatskin round her, tying her shoes and making garters with stripes of the same fur, she put a rope of straw round her waist and took a large staff in her hand. “She is prepared at last, and come now,” the men said. When she came in sight, the factor looked at her in amazement, for he had never before seen a creature of her appearance. Before she came near he called, “Wife, do you know where the horse and cow I put in the park are now?” She paid no attention to him, but kept on coming nearer (_cha do lag i air a ceum_), till she stood at his shoulder. “To whom did the animals belong?” she asked him then. “The cow belonged to the king,” he said, “and the horse to myself.” “How could a cow belonging to the king be in this township?” she asked. “This woman gave it to me for the tax,” he said, pointing to the widow. “She did not give it to you; she said you took it with you; and it is now that I understand the meaning of what happened when I was in my own house to-day, and heard an uproar (_straighlich_) in the air above that was greater than any one could ever have heard, and on looking for the cause of it, there it was in a fire; and though all the fires that you ever saw were gathered together, they would not make one like it; and in the last of the fire (_’an earball an teine_) I looked to see what there was, and what was there but a horse and cow, while there were as good as five thousand little men, the hill men (_muinntir nan cnoc_), who were not larger than bottles, going on, on each side of the fire; and if you had as much knowledge of the dwellers of these hills as I have, you would not touch the widow’s portion, but if you are anxious to get back the animals--there before you, is the hill where they are, and where you can go and seek them, and if you can, find them.” The man, who was terrified by her appearance and words, kept looking at her (_’g a feitheamh_) and always drawing a step further off. He went home without horse or cow, and however long he remained in the office he held, the fear of the wise woman, (_Iseabal N’ic Rao’uill_) and the fairies kept him from ever returning to Duntulm. When he was out of sight of the township, the young men of Duntulm went to the islet where they left the animals, which they brought back and gave to the poor woman, who was then able to pay the tax.

FOLK TALES.

THE TWO BROTHERS.

A TALE OF ENCHANTMENT.