The term BÒchdan (pron. Baucan) is a general name for terrifying objects seen at night, and taken to be supernatural, bugbears, ghosts, apparitions, goblins, etc., in all their variety. The word conveys as much the idea of fright in the observer as of anything hurtful or violent in the object itself. It is derived from bÒchd, to come in a swelling and resistless flood, not an unapt description of the manner in which fear takes possession of its victims. Any object, indistinctly seen, may prove a hobgoblin of this kind. It may be merely a neighbour playing pranks by going about in a white sheet, a stray dog, a bush waving and sighing in the night wind, or even a peat-stack looming large in the imperfect light. There is a story of a man on Loch Rannoch-side who fought a bush, in mistake for a ghost, in a hollow, which had an evil name for being haunted. The conflict continued till dawn, when he was found exhausted, scratched, and bleeding.

Sometimes the Baucan, or terrifying object, causes fright by its mere appearance, sometimes by the noises it makes, and sometimes by its silence. In appearance it is commonly a man or woman moving silently past, and not speaking till spoken to, if even then; but it has also been encountered as a black dog, that accompanies the traveller part of his way, as a headless body (a particularly dangerous form of ghost), as a he-goat, or simply a dark moving object. At other times it is terrific from having a chain clanking after it, from its whistling with unearthly loudness, by horrible and blood-freezing cries and sounds of throttling, and sometimes it makes its presence known only by faint and hardly audible sounds. In fact, the number and variety of things by which superstitious terror may be awakened at night are countless.

In most cases the Baucan is deemed the precursor of a sudden or violent death to occur at the place where it is seen or heard. It is remembered after the event that an unaccountable light was seen there at night, or a horse had become uneasy and could not be induced by its rider to pass, or something extraordinary had been observed, which the popular imagination connects with the subsequent event. At other times the Baucan is the spirit of the dead revisiting the earth, that it may be spoken to, and unburden itself of some secret that disturbs its rest. Sometimes it is an evil spirit on some message of darkness and sometimes merely a sound or indistinct object by which the wayfarer is frightened, but of which he is unable to give any lucid description. Fright is destructive of curiosity, and a person ready to faint with terror cannot be expected to be critical in his observations, nor afterwards coherent in his statements. Besides, vagueness or indistinctness as to the cause—an element to which the obscurity of night lends a ready aid—tends to render fear more frantic. If the observer had a distinct view of the object of his alarm, and knew exactly what it was, even though it were a spirit of darkness, his terror would be less. Omne ignotum pro magnifico is an axiom that holds especially true in such cases, and it is ignorance of its own cause that gives terror its wildest forms. A ghost or apparition seen in the day time, if that were possible, would not be at all so dreadful.

It may be said, that every Highland village has near it a locality where a ghost or baucan is, or was, to be seen. A favourite haunt for these unearthly visitants is by the fords of rivers (beul Àth na h-aimhne), where generally bridges have been built in modern times, near churchyards, on dark moors, and in hollows, or rather at the top of the ascent from hollows, traversed by the public road. Not unfrequently there is a projecting rock (srÒin creige) near the spot, and this may have its own share in producing that sense of loneliness and awe, which makes the belated peasant prone to convert stray animals and unusual appearances into ghosts and spirits. It is a noticeable feature in ghost stories, that it is principally to those travelling alone, and not accustomed to walk the night, that ghosts are visible. They have been seen in houses, and even in towns, but ordinarily they affect lonely places, where naturally men are more apt to be timorous.

The “Black Shore” (du-chladach) as it is called, i.e. the shore below the line or roll of seaweed thrown up by the tide (rÒlag rÒid), is, according to Highland belief, an asylum from all kinds of supernatural beings that haunt the night, fairies, ghosts, or evil spirits. No being “at all, at all” of the kind (seÒrsa sam bith, sam bith) can go below the tide mark. The confidence of the timorous in this place of refuge is confirmed by the assurance that they are not exposed to a similar danger from the sea. It is a saying, “Evil comes not from the sea” (Cha d’thig olc sam bith o’n fhairge).

Ghosts and evil spirits cannot cross a running stream, a belief which had its origin before the days of bridges. The shock given to the nerves by the cold water, when it was of any depth, served to dispel the optical delusion caused by unfounded terror.

When about to encounter a Baucan the dirk should be partly drawn from its sheath, otherwise it will prove impossible during the encounter to draw the weapon. In the event of the evil spirit asking its name it should not be called by its proper name, “a dirk” (biodag), but “my father’s sister” (piuthar m’athar), “my grandmother’s sister” (piuthar mo sheanamhair) or by some similar title. This prevents enchantments being laid upon it to render it useless. The effect of these is, that instead of giving the ghost its quietus, the weapon merely makes a tinkling noise (gliong) against it. Evil spirits cannot bear the touch of cold steel. Iron, or preferably steel, in any form is a protection, though it is not obvious how or why, against the fairies,—an iron ring on the point of a staff is as good as a sword, but evil spirits are subdued by it only when made into a lethal weapon.

In the struggle the ghost is in the hands of its opponent, soft as a bag of wool or impalpable as air. At every tussle, therefore, the unfortunate man is thrown down and injured.

In the presence of an evil spirit, a dog defends its master, or crouches in terror about his feet, but a bitch jumps at his throat, and if it can will tear him. It is, however, rendered harmless, by taking blood from its ear, or tying a collar (conghal i.e. ceangal), usually its master’s garter, about its neck. Similarly an entire horse was said to defend its master, but a mare attacked him. It was also a belief, that an entire horse could not be injured by witches or evil spirits.

The best protection is a circle drawn round one’s self on the ground with the point of a sapling or dirk, saying “The Cross of Christ be upon us” (Crois Chriosd oirnn!) All the spirits that infest the night may dash in fury against this circle, but they can no more pass it, than the most threatening waves of the sea the rocks that form their appointed bounds. As already suggested, this circle is the superstitious representative of a person’s own integrity, within which he is safe from the attacks and wiles of the devil. It is known also in Ireland, as the following story told in Arisaig, Inverness-shire, by an Irish packman, shows.

A priest’s brother having died, a young man, who had been a bosom friend of his, expressed an ardent wish some weeks after to see him again. That same evening he was met by the shade of his dead companion, and the two had a long talk together. They spoke of the pleasure, they had in each other’s society, and the dead man got the other to promise to meet him at the same spot the following evening. It added, “To make you sure it is indeed I, you will tell my brother the priest of such and such an occurrence [describing it], which nobody knows but he and I.” On his way home, the young man called upon the priest, and told what he had seen. “It is not my brother’s ghost at all,” said the priest, “but the devil, who is trying to decoy you into his power; I will go with you to-morrow night to meet him.” The two went together to the place of appointment, the priest taking with him a dirk, with which he traced a circle round them, and an iron hoop, inside of which also they stood. A figure in face and form like the priest’s brother, “most like, yet not the same,” came, but on finding itself outwitted, and a Bible being opened before it, went away in a flame of fire.

THE Bodach, OR CARLE.

The bodach (lit. a carle, an old man) is perhaps the commonest form of Baucan, so common that in some districts, e.g. the Lord Reay country (DÙthaich Mhic Aoi), as the seven parishes nearest to Cape Wrath are called, they have no other name for apparitions or terrifying objects seen at night. It is the figure of a man, who is no “living wight,” seen at night, and as may readily be imagined, this kind of apparition is frequently seen when children are obstreperous, querulous, or crying without cause, as their manner is. The Beckoning Old Man (Bodach an SmÉididh) appears about the corners of houses, making signs with his hand for people to come to him. The Corra-lÒigein, whatever his name may mean, stands in places which it is desirable to keep children from wandering to after dark, and will ill-treat any of whom it gets a hold. The principal of these Lemures is “The Son of Platter-pool,” whose full title is, “The Son of Platter-pool from grey spike, silken spike, great caterpillar.”[32] This, as his name indicates, is really a frightful bugbear; he looks in at windows, flattens his face against the panes, sharpens his teeth with much noise, and takes away children in a twinkling, unless they keep quiet. Neither he, however, nor any of his brother bugbears, enter a house unless called in. The threat of doing so is generally quite sufficient to silence the most ill-grained child.

FUATH.

This word means literally aversion, hatred, but in Ross-shire is a common word to denote an apparition, ghost, spectre. In this latter sense, it is rare in Argyleshire. In the poem of the Muireartach or Muileartach, which may be translated, “Western Sea,” foster-mother of Manus, King of Lochlin, describing her attack upon Fin MacCoul and his men, it is said:

The attributes of the Fuath are different in different tales, and Mr. Campbell (Tales of the West Highlands, ii. 191) has fallen into the error of conjoining attributes ascribed in several stories, and representing the Fuath as a water spirit, having web-feet, tail, mane, etc. The name of a desolate moor near Ullapool, in Ross-shire, “The Flat-stoned Declivity of Fuaths” (Leathad leacanta nam Fuath), is alone convincing it was not deemed particularly a water spirit.

The following tales will illustrate the character of Highland hobgoblins and such-like objects of terror better than a lengthened disquisition.

CACHLAIDH NA FEUSAIG, ISLAY.

At the bottom of a dell, or hollow, through which the public road lies, in the island of Islay, there was a gate across the road, bearing the above name, which means “The Beard gateway.” At this place things unearthly were encountered after dark. One night a man saw an indistinct object coming towards him. He could give no account of it, but that its mouth was wide open, as if to devour him, and that from the width of its gape he could see its lungs (sgamhan) down its throat. He was accompanied, fortunately, by a large Newfoundland dog, which rushed between his legs at the “thing,” and a terrific fight ensued. He ran away home, leaving them at it. In the morning the dog came without any hair on its body, and shortly after its return expired.

About the middle of February, a party was coming home from the market held on the Level Ridge (Imire CÒmhnard) at Ballygrant (Ugly Town). Before parting they entered a roadside inn. One of them, Ewen M’Corkindale, had, after leaving, to pass through the Beard gateway and the haunted dell. His companions made fun of him, and asked him if he was not afraid of the Bodach, the carle, or old man, who haunted the dell. Out of fool-hardiness, Ewen proposed “the health of the bodach, the old man, and let the cailleach, the old wife, go to the dogs.” When he reached the haunted spot two apparitions, an old man and an old woman, met him. The old woman endeavoured to attack him, but the old man kept her off, and ever after, at every opportunity, the same scene was rehearsed, the old wife attacked him and the old man defended him. The latter also told him to go to a smithy in Ireland, others say to two brothers in Cantyre, and get a dirk made, and as long as he kept this on his person the old woman would not venture to attack him. The dirk bent three times in the making, and from its possession Ewen acquired the title of “Ewen of the Dirk” (Eoghan na biodaig). As he was working one evening by moonlight in the harvest field, he left the dirk on a stook of corn, along with his vest. The carlin wife got between him and the dirk, and gave him such a squeeze that he put out three mouthfuls of blood. The bodach came, but too late, to his rescue. It however, told him, that if he survived till cock-crowing, five years would be added to his life. Ewen woke up now and then to ask if the cock crew yet, but when it did it was too late. Very likely the poor man died of some rupture or heart disease. The dirk was preserved by his son.

THE HEADLESS BODY (Colann gun cheann).

At the shore and forming part of the boundary between North and South Morar,[34] on the west coast of Inverness-shire, there is a large rocky mound (cnoc mÒr creige), which was long the cause of terror in the district. At the base of the mound a road can be taken along the shore when the tide is out. No one, however, taking it alone after nightfall, lived to tell the tale. His remains were found next day among the large boulder stones (eÒmach mÒr chlach), of which the shore is full, mangled, and bearing traces of a ghastly and unnatural death. Persons who had the second sight looking over the rocks that overhang the shore said they saw a phantom or “something” haunting the place, having the shape of a headless human figure. Macdonall or MacCuÏl, as he is styled, of South Morar (Mac Dhughaill mhÒrair), whose house was not far from the scene of the Headless Body’s violence, unexpectedly became the means of expelling it from its haunt. He was one winter evening unexpectedly visited by a friend. He had no one to send to Bracara across the river, to invite some more friends to come and join in the entertainment of his guest but his son and heir, then about 18 years of age. He strictly enjoined the youth not to return that night unless men came with him, for fear of the Headless Body. The young man did not find the friends he was sent for at home, and with the temerity natural to his years came back alone. The Body met him and killed him, and in the morning were found traces of a fearful struggle, large stones displaced and clots of blood, as if the youth had put out his heart’s blood. MacCuÏl made a solemn vow neither to eat nor drink till he avenged his son’s death. All that evening his friends tried to persuade him to remain at home, but to no purpose. The Headless Body never appeared but to those who passed its way alone, and the chief’s friends had to return while he went on unaccompanied to the haunted rocks. The Body came out and said, “You have come to take your son’s ransom (Éiric); take counsel, and go home.” To this the chief replied by clasping his arms round the hated apparition. A furious struggle commenced, and to this day the stones may be seen which were rolled out of their way in the dread encounter. At last the strong and fearless chief got the Headless Body under, and drew his dirk to stab it. The Body cried, “Hold your hand, MacCuÏl, touch me not with the iron, and while there is one within the twentieth degree related to you (air an fhicheadamh miar) in Morar, I will not again be seen.”

When this story was heard some years ago there were only two alive within this relationship to the ancient chief, one a harmless idiot, the other a poor woman in Fort William. One or other of them must be still alive, for the Headless Ghost has not yet made its reappearance. The person from whom it was heard, was a firm believer in its truth, and in his youth, half a century ago, was well acquainted with the district in which the events were said to have occurred. He had learned and practised the tailoring trade there.

Another, and somewhat different, version of the tale will be found in Campbell’s West Highland Tales, ii. 89. In it the subduing of the ghost is ascribed to Stout John, Laird of Raasay, a proof of the manner in which floating popular tales attach themselves to known characters. The words ascribed to the Body as it went away, were composed in the East Indies by a piper of the name of Bruce from East-side, Skye. Beinn Heidera and Bealach a Bhorbhain are both in East-side, Skye. The words are an adaptation of an old tune, “Thogainn fonn air gille an t-sealgair.”

The tale quoted by Scott (Lay of the Last Minstrel note Q) from Henry the Minstrel, of Sir William Wallace’s encounter with the Headless Body is also known in the Hebrides, and has been told to the writer by a native of the extreme west of Tiree. According to this version, Macfadyen’s head was cut off by Wallace to avoid his falling alive into the hands of the English. Macfadyen was an old man and not able to keep up with the rest of the retreating company. When Wallace himself went to open the door, the Headless Body stood holding the head by the hair in its hand, and threw it at Wallace. Wallace picked it up and flung it out at the door as far as he could. The Headless Body went in search of it and Wallace made his escape by a window on the opposite side of the castle.

There is a rhyme with which probably some legend was formerly connected:

It was deemed very foolhardy in a boy to go out after dark alone and say,

THE GREY PAW (SpÒg liath).

In the big church of Beauly (Eaglais mhor na manachain, i.e. of the Monastery) mysterious and unearthly sights and sounds were seen and heard at night, and none who went to watch the churchyard or burial-places within the church ever came back alive. A courageous tailor made light of the matter and laid a wager that he would go any night, and sew a pair of hose in the haunted church. He went and began his task. The light of the full moon streamed in through the windows, and at first all was silent and natural. At the dead hour of midnight, however, a big ghastly head emerged from a tomb and said, “Look at the old grey cow that is without food, tailor.”[37] The tailor answered, “I see that and I sew this,” and soon found that while he spoke the ghost was stationary, but when he drew breath it rose higher. The neck emerged and said, “A long grizzled weasand that is without food, tailor.”[38] The tailor went on with his work in fear, but answered, “I see it, my son, I see it, my son, I see that and I sew this just now.”[39] This he said drawling out his words to their utmost length. At last his voice failed and he inhaled a long breath. The ghost rose higher and said, “A long grey arm that is without flesh or food, tailor.”[40] The trembling tailor went on with his work and answered, “I see it, my son, I see it, my son; I see that and I sew this just now.” Next breath the thigh came up and the ghastly apparition said, “A long, crooked shank that is without meat, tailor.” “I see it, my son, I see it, my son; I see that and I sew this just now.” The long foodless and fleshless arm was now stretched in the direction of the tailor. “A long grey paw without blood or flesh, or muscles, or meat, tailor.”[41] The tailor was near done with his work and answered, “I see it, my son, I see it, my son; I see that and I sew this just now,” while with a trembling heart he proceeded with his work. At last he had to draw breath, and the ghost, spreading out its long and bony fingers and clutching the air in front of him, said, “A big grey claw that is without meat, tailor.”[42] At that moment the last stitch was put in the hose, and the tailor gave one spring of horror to the door. The claw struck at him and the point of the fingers caught him by the bottom against the door-post and took away the piece. The mark of the hand remains on the door to this day. The tailor’s flesh shook and quivered with terror, and he could cut grass with his haunches as he flew home.

This is perhaps the most widely known and most popular story in the Highlands. Its incidents can be reproduced on a winter evening with frightful distinctness by means of a shadow on the wall. This gives it a wonderful attraction for children, and if fear can under any circumstances be called into healthy action (and dread, like any other power or capacity of the mind must have a proper and healthy action), it is in listening to this or similar stories. Their baneful effects, if such there be, soon disappear. There is hardly an old church in the Highlands, where the event has not been said to have occurred. A writer in the last statistical account (Argyleshire, p. 682 note) claims it for the old church of Glassary. In Skye it is placed in the Eaglais Uamhalta in Conasta near Duntulm. The old church of Beauly has the most popular claim, though to a youthful audience the truth of the story is much confirmed by putting the scene in some place that they know.

In the cathedral of Iona, there is a small nook pointed out, called “the tailor’s hole” (Toll an taÌllear), where it is said the monks kept the tailor who made their clothes. They kept him too long, and too busy at his work, and at last “things” began to trouble him at night. The worst of these was a fleshless hand that used to show itself on the wall, and say, “a great grey paw that is without meat, tailor.”

Another form of the tale is that the tailor was at the aire chlaidh, i.e. watching the graveyard, of a friend, in a chapel (caibeal) when the foodless figure began to emerge from a tomb. The tailor did not run away till the figure had got up as far as the knees, and said: “Sliasaid liath reamhar,” etc.

EWEN AND THE CARLIN WIFE.

One of the commonest of Gaelic sayings is, “Whether he would or not, as the old wife came upon Ewen,” to which is frequently added, “a wife as big as his mother” (a dheÒin no dh’aindeoin, mar thainig a chailleach air Eoghan, bean cho mÒr ri mhathair). There are various versions of the origin of this tale, but none of them common.

The celebrated Ewen Cameron of Locheil (who is characterised by Macaulay, in his History of England, as the Ulysses of the Highlands, a gracious master, a trusty ally, and a terrible enemy), was on a journey, as the story goes, from Aberdeen to Inverness. He was at the time a young man, and on entering the inn, in which he stayed at Aberdeen, the evening before starting, he found sitting before him an old woman he had never seen before. On seeing Ewen she wrinkled up her nose, tossed her head, and said “hih.” Ewen, being of a witty humour, replied by wrinkling up his own nose, tossing his head, and saying “hoh.” Next morning when starting, he found the hag waiting for him at the door. She said, “Step it out, Ewen” (Ceum ann, Eoghain!) He said nothing, but went on his way. All day the old woman walked alongside, and, whenever his steps flagged, repeated her challenge to him to step it out. Ashamed to be beat by an old woman, and agile as a wild cat, Ewen held on at a headlong pace, and before nightfall the pair were in Inverness, 108 miles away. Ewen was sadly fatigued, as may well be supposed from the distance and the pace. That night he consulted an old man, who advised him to answer the old wife’s challenge also in words, and no evil would result from his walk. Next day the hag, as before, was waiting for him at the door, and said, “Step it out, Ewen” (Ceum ann, Eoghain!) He answered: “A step for your step, and a step additional, old woman!” (Ceum air do cheum, agus ceum a bharrachd, a chailleach!) This day they walked to Patrickson Sound (Caolas ’ic Phadruig), as the ferry across Loch Leven at Balachulish is called, a distance of 75 miles. Ewen got into the ferry boat first, and pushed off from the shore. When the hag saw herself about to lose him, she called out, “My sincere wishes are yours, Ewen” (Mo dhÙrachd dhut fhÉin, Eoghain!) He replied: “Your sincere wishes be upon your own sides, and on yonder grey stone, old wife!” (RÙn do chridh’ air do chliathaich ’s air a chloich ghlais ud thall, a chailleach). The old wife looked at the grey stone, and it split in two, as may still be seen by any one passing that way.

Another version of the parting of Ewen and the Old Wife is, that the pair came to Ewen’s foster-mother’s house. That night his foster-mother put him to sleep on a hard deal board, and placed a crock of butter[43] to his feet, while she put the old wife in a soft and luxurious bed. In the morning Ewen was as fresh as a lark, his feet had soaked in the whole of the butter during the night, but the Carlin wife was dead!

Another, and probably older, tale of the origin of the saying, is of a wilder cast. Ewen was a jolly young fellow (Óganach grinn) who went to a wedding. He had a switch in his hand, with which, when the ceremony was being performed in the church, he tapped a skull in the church window, saying to it every word the minister said to the couple marrying. That night on going to bed he was seized by a shivering cold, and an old woman (cailleach) came and claimed him as her husband. She said, they were married as surely as the couple in church that day. She came night after night, and Ewen, whose thoughtless fun had turned to such terrible earnestness, could not get rid of her, do what he could. An old man, whom he consulted, said, there was a bad chance of her going away while he lived, but that he ought to consult Michael Scott. Michael said, “I will separate you from her, but perhaps you will not live after. Here is a book, which you are to take to bed with you, and when she goes away, open the book, and follow her wherever she goes. While the book is open, she cannot leave you by walking. Before you come back, you will see the bed prepared for me, and will be able to tell me what it is like.” The hag went to hell, and Ewen followed.[44] Several subordinate demons came first to the door, but Ewen demanded an interview with their chief. He then requested, that the old wife should be bound with chains, to keep her always in her infernal abode. This was done, but when he offered to go away, she followed. She was then put below a caldron (fo bhial coire) on the bed of brimstone prepared for Michael Scott, and she is probably there still. Ewen came back to tell Michael, that his bed was ready, and did not live long after his terrible adventure.

THE BLACK WALKER OF THE FORD.

Rather more than a century ago,[45] there lived at Amhulaich, in Rannoch, a miller, much addicted to the use of tobacco, and when unable to get it, was like most smokers very short and quick in the temper. On one occasion, he ran out of tobacco, and sent for a supply by some Lochaber men, who were passing through Rannoch on their way to Perth. The mill-stream ran close to his house, and he had to cross it on stepping stones in going to and from the mill. As he was returning home one evening in the dusk, and was about to enter the house, he heard the sound of footsteps coming to the ford. He called out, who is there? but received no answer. Being crusty for want of tobacco, and thinking it might be the Lochaber men returning, he called out a second time, very peremptorily and impatiently. He still received no answer. He called out a third time, turning down to the ford, and saying aloud, that, whether it was man or devil, he would make it answer. The thing then spoke, and said it (or he) was the Black Walker of the Ford (Coisiche du beul an Àth). What further passed between the two never transpired, but every evening after that, for a year or more, the miller left home at dusk, crossed the stream, and went to a small clump of trees about half a mile away, whence loud cries and yells were heard during the night. Before daybreak he came home, with his knife or dirk covered with blood. When examined by the light, the blood proved to be merely earth. An attempt was made on one occasion by some young men to follow him to the rendezvous, but he became aware in some mysterious way of the attempt, and turning back warned them not to follow. It was enough, he said, for himself to go, without their perilling their souls. On the last night of his going to meet the Black Walker, such terrific outcries were heard from the clump of trees, that the people of the neighbouring villages, Amhulaich and CragganoÜr, came to the doors to listen. It was a winter night, and next morning marks of a foot or knee were found in the snow, along with the miller’s own footsteps, as if something had been engaged in a struggle with him. Some years after this, a man, who had been away in America, entered Amhulaich Mill. The miller at the time was dressing the mill-stone, and whenever he observed the American, threw at him the pick he had in his hand, and nearly killed another, who was standing near. He told him never to appear in his presence again, that he had had enough of him. Many surmised it was this man, who had troubled him before, but whether it was or not never appeared.

STROWAN, ATHOLE.

Within the present century, a native of Glen Erochty (Gleann Eireachdaidh), the valley that leads from Athole to Rannoch, was similarly afflicted. Every evening he went to meet the evil spirit, at a small circle of trees, on the top of the hill above the clachan of Strowan. The last occasion of his doing so, was after the shinty playing on New-Year’s day. He took with him a large stick, which had been cut that same day in the wood, and had served one of the players for a shinty stick. Next day this stick was found at the scene of the nightly meetings, twisted like a withe, while all round within a circle the snow was trampled, as if there had been a struggle. There were marks of a man’s foot and of a knee.

THE UNEARTHLY WHISTLE.

About seventy years ago, a young man, a native of the village of Cornaig, in Tiree, went in the evening to another village, Cruaidh-ghortain, about two miles distant. When he reached it, he reclined on a bed, and being tired fell fast asleep. He awoke with a start, and thinking from the clearness of the night (it was full moon) daylight had come, hurried off home. His way lay across a desolate moor, called the Yellow Ridge (Druim Buidhe), and when halfway he heard a loud whistle behind him, but in a different direction from that in which he had come, at a distance, as he thought, of above a mile. The whistle was so unearthly loud, he thought every person in the island must have heard it. He hurried on, and when opposite the Sharp-pointed Rock (An Carragh biorach) he heard the whistle again, as if at the place where he himself had been when he heard it first. The whistle was so clear and loud, that it sent a shiver through his very marrow. With a beating heart he quickened his pace, and when at the gateway adjoining the village he belonged to, he heard the whistle at the Pointed Rock. He here made off the road, and managed to reach home before being overtaken. He rushed into the barn, where he usually slept, and, after one look towards the door at his pursuer, buried himself below a pile of corn. His brother was in a bed in the same barn asleep. His father was in the house, and three times, with an interval between each call, heard a voice at the door saying, “Are you asleep? Will you not go to look at your son? He is in danger of his life, and in risk of all he is worth” (an geall na’s fhiach e). Each call became more importunate, and at last the old man rose and went to the barn. After a search he found his son below a pile of sheaves, and nearly dead. The only account the young man could give was, that when he stood at the door, he could see the sky between the legs of his pursuer, who came to the door and said it was fortunate for him he had reached shelter; and that he (the pursuer) was such a one who had been killed in the Field of Birds (BlÀr nam Big-ein) in the Moas, a part of Tiree near hand.

In its main outline, this tale may be correct enough. A hideous nightmare or terror had made the fatigued young man hide himself under the corn, and things as strange have happened, in the history of nervous delusions, as that he should have gone himself to the door of the dwelling house to call his father.

THE BATTLE OF GAURA.

This was the battle in which Cairbre and Oscar, the son of Ossian, were killed. It was fought in Ireland about the fifth century, and from the poem or ballad, in which Ossian describes the battle and the circumstances of his son’s death, and which is still extant in popular tradition, has always been the most celebrated of Celtic battles. Macpherson has worked up the popular accounts in the first Book of Temora, but not very successfully.

One night a little man, of the name of Campbell, was going home from the smithy, with the ploughshare and coulter on his shoulder, and in a narrow glen encountered a gigantic figure, that stood with a foot resting on each side of the valley. This figure asked him, “What is your name?” He answered boldly (as became one of the clan), “Campbell.” It then asked, “Were you at the Battle of Gaura?” He answered “Yes.” “Show me your hand, then, that I may know if you were at the Battle of Gaura.” Instead of his hand, Campbell held out the ploughshare and coulter, and the figure grasped them so tightly, that they were welded together and had to be taken back to the smithy, to be separated. “I see,” said the apparition, “that you were at the Battle of Gaura, for your hand is pretty hard.”

Two men were during the night on their way, it is said, to steal sheep. One beguiled the way by telling the other about the Battle of Gaura. Two figures of immense size appeared, one on the top of each of two high hills in the neighbourhood. The gigantic apparitions spoke to each other, and one said, “Do you hear these men down there? I was the second best hero (ursainn chath, lit. door-post of battle) at the Battle of Gaura, and that man down there knows all about it better than I do myself.”

THE BEAST OF ODAL PASS.

From Kyle-rhea (Caol-Redhinn), the narrowest part of the Sound of Skye, the Pass of Odal stretches westward and forms one of the most striking Pass views in the Highlands. It was through it, that the first public road was made in Skye, about sixty years ago. At the time it was being made, the Pass was haunted by “something” awful—the more awful that its character was not distinctly known,—that enjoyed an evil reputation far and wide as “The Beast of Odal Pass” (Biasd Bealach Odail). This thing, whatever it was, did not always appear in the same shape. Sometimes it bore the form of a man, sometimes of a man with only one leg; at other times it appeared like a greyhound, or beast prowling about; and sometimes it was heard uttering frightful shrieks and outcries, which made the workmen leave their bothies in horror. It was only during the night it was seen or heard. Travellers through the Pass at night were often thrown down and hurt by it, and with difficulty made their way to a place of safety. It ceased when a man was found dead at the roadside, pierced with two wounds one on his side and one on his leg, with a hand pressed on each wound. It was considered impossible these wounds could have been inflicted by human agency.

Luideag, “THE RAG.”

At a small loch between Broadford and Sleat, in Skye, called “The Lakelet of Black Trout” (Lochan nan dubh bhreac), thirty or forty years ago, the figure of a young woman with a coat about her head was commonly to be seen at night in the neighbourhood of and on the public road that passes that way. She went by the name Luideag, i.e. the Rag, or slovenly female. She did not answer when spoken to, and disappeared as silently and mysteriously as she made her appearance. The place is lonely and far from houses, and there was no conceivable reason why any one, much less a female, should nightly frequent it. An excise-man passing the way once spoke to Luideag, first in English and then in Gaelic, but she answered not a word. A man was found lying dead on the road at the place, and she never appeared afterwards.

Lochan Doimeig.

On the skirts of Schiehallion, the steepest and one of the highest hills in the kingdom, there is a small loch or tarn, near Crossmount, in Lower Rannoch, the vicinity of which about 50 years ago was the scene of strange terrors at night. The road leading over the shoulder of the hill to Weem lay along the shores of this lake, and, where it was crossed by a small stream that falls into the loch, those who passed the way after dark were scared by strange sights. After crossing the ford the traveller was accompanied for about twenty yards by a dog, a he-goat, a dark moving mass, or some other object, which, from the unaccountable manner of its appearance and disappearance, could not be deemed earthly. A native of Kilchonan, in Rannoch, who had been for some time in the south as a gardener, came on a visit to his friends, and had to pass in the neighbourhood of the loch. It was ascertained that at Cashieville (Cois-a-bhile), where he left the strath of the Tay to cross the skirts of Schiehallion, he had taken a drink of porter. It was fourteen days after before it was ascertained he never reached Kilchonan. A search was instituted; men gathered from Appin and Athole and Rannoch, and the whole country round about, and continued the search for three or four days, even as far as Glenlyon, but without success. One of the exploring parties when above Crossmount was met by a woman, who advised them to search round Lochan Doimeig, for she had dreamt last night she was cutting rushes there. Soon after a man met them, who gave them the same advice, and said he had had the same dream. On going round the loch they found the dead gardener lying on a green mound on the brink of the stream, already mentioned as crossing the road, in the attitude in which he had stretched himself to take a drink.

RETURN OF THE DEAD.

A former minister of East-side, Skye, was in his lifetime addicted to visiting his cattle fold. His whole heart was given to his herds, and after his death his ghost was to be seen revisiting his former haunts. An old man undertook to meet and lay the ghost. The two met and saluted each other in the usual manner. When shaking hands, however, the man, instead of his hand, offered the ploughshare. After that the ghost never came back.

In the same neighbourhood, about thirty years ago, a man died suddenly. His wife watched the cows in harvest soon after this, lest they should leave the fank or enclosure, in which they were put at nights to keep them from wandering into the crops. She had occasion one night to leave her charge and go to a shop two miles away. On her return she went to close a gap (beÀrn) in the fold (buaile). She found there her late husband, who told her not to be anxious, as he was watching in her stead. Every night after this he was visible to anyone who chose to go and look for him. He even came to the house to ceilidh, i.e. to while away the time, a favourite recreation in the Highlands (??s?? of the ancient Greeks) of spending the evening, by gathering in a neighbour’s house to listen to gossip and tales and idle talk. The dead man’s attentions at last made the wife resolve to sell all she had and go to America. On the day of the sale the cattle could not be gathered; they seemed to be taken possession of by an undefinable terror, and the sale and projected emigration had to be abandoned. A little bird hovering about was evidently the cause of the wildness of the cattle. After this day the visits of the dead man ceased.

DONALD GORM’S GHOST.

In 1616 a batch of West Highland and Island chiefs were brought before the Privy Council in Edinburgh, and bound over in restrictions as to the quantity of wine they were respectively to use in their houses. The narrative upon which the Privy Council proceeded is quoted by Gregory (History of the Western Highlands, p. 395): “The great and extraordinary excesse in drinking of wyne, commonlie usit among the commonis and tenantis of the Yllis is not only ane occasioun of the beastlie and barbarous cruelties and inhumanities that fallis oute amongis thame, to the offens and displeasour of God, and contempt of law and justice; but that it drawis numberis of thame to miserable necessitie and povartie, sua they are constrainit, quhen they want from their awne, to take from their nichtbours.”[46] Among these lawless and reckless chiefs was Donald Gorm Mor (Big Blue Donald), of Sleat, in Skye, the then Lord Macdonald of the Isles. He was prevented from attending the Council by sickness, but ratified all their proceedings. “He named Duntulm, a castle of his family in Trouterness (in Skye), as his residence; and six household gentlemen and an annual consumption of four tun of wine was allowed him.” He died that same year, and was succeeded by his nephew, Donald Gorm Og (Young Blue Donald). So far history; the following tradition is well known in Skye:

Some family document went amissing, and its loss was likely to be of serious consequence to young Donald Gorm. At the same time the figures of Donald Gorm Mor and two companions were repeatedly seen on the road leading to Duntulm Castle. Efforts were made to accost them, but the three figures passed those who met them in some mysterious manner without being noticed, and without giving any opportunity of being accosted. They were then seen to enter the castle. An old man of the neighbourhood advised that seven staves of pine (gathannan caol giuthais), according to others seven spindles of oak (seachd dealgun daraich), with fire at their points, should be taken, and entry be made into the room in which the ghosts each day took up their quarters. This was done, and the phantoms, Donald Gorm Mor and his two companions, were found drinking. To give confidence to the intruders, that they might hear his tale, Donald said:

He then told where the lost document was to be found, and disappeared, saying:

TAIBHSE CHOIMHLIG.

Peter Brown, at Dun Crosg, in Glen Lochy, hid a ploughshare (coltair), and died without telling where. In consequence his ghost long haunted a waterfall in the neighbourhood (Eas Choimhlig), but no one had the courage to speak to it and ascertain the cause of its unrest. In every settled community, the ploughshare is of greater value, though less glory is attached to it than the sword or any other weapon, and in the Highlands, the same terrors were attached to the hiding of so useful an instrument, which afterwards, and in a more commercial state of society, were believed to follow the secreting of gold. The unhappy man who hid it, and died without revealing his secret, could not rest in his grave. Peter Brown’s ghost was commonly seen as a roebuck (boc-earba), that followed people passing the ravine of Coilig after dark, but also as a horse, dog, man, etc., and disappeared only about forty years ago. A weaver had the courage to meet it, and had a long talk with it. He was told what would happen to his family, and that his daughter, whose marriage was then spoken of, would never marry. When he returned home he took to his bed and never rose. There is now a bridge where the ford was formerly, and it was at the top of the bank above the ford the ghost was seen. It once fought a strong man, and the marks of the conflict long remained on the ground and trees.

KINGAIRLOCH, ARGYLESHIRE.

A skiff was upset at Maodlach, the most rugged part of the coast of this rugged district. Of the two men who formed its crew, one was saved by clinging to the boat, but the other, a powerful swimmer, in trying to swim ashore, was drowned close to land. He omitted to put off his shoes and got entangled in the seaweed. Some time after his brother was coming from the smithy late at night along the shore, carrying an iron bolt on his shoulder. When opposite the place where his brother’s body had been found, this man was joined by a figure which, it was said, resembled a he-goat. He had at the time two dogs along with him, one of which cowered about his feet, but the other, a bitch, leapt up at his throat, and he had again and again to strike it down with the bolt he carried on his shoulder. The figure spoke, but it never clearly transpired what it said. It gave messages to deliver to former associates, especially to one thoughtless individual, warning him to amend in time. When the brother reached a house and came to the light, he fainted away.

FLADDA-CHUAIN.

In this islet, which lies on the east coast of Skye, there lived at one time a native of Mull and his wife. In the place there is a burying-ground called “The Monks’ burial-ground” (Cladh a Mhanaich), the existence of which adds much to the feelings of awe natural to so lonely a place—a solitary islet several miles from land in a stormy sea. A dead body came on the shore, and was buried, after being stripped of its clothes. After this the dead man came to the hut in which the Mull man stayed regularly at midnight, and sat warming himself at the fire which was left burning all night on the floor. As he bent over the fire, and held his feet and his hands to it, he said, “I will softly warm myself, I will softly warm myself” (Ni mi mo theÓghadh ’s mo theÓghadh), and then add,

After the Mull man left the place, a party of fishermen, being in the neighbourhood, sent one of their number ashore, Red-headed Donald (DÒmhnull Ruadh) to prepare dinner for them in the bothy. As Donald was bending down to kindle a fire, something struck him violently on the skull and knocked him flat. Every time he attempted to lift his head the thing knocked him on the skull again. He felt sure it must be the ghost which warmed itself at the Mull-man’s fire, the TeÓghan of which his companions had warned him. Finding it would not allow him to rise, he lay on his back as he had been knocked down, and, not daring to look at his assaulter, wriggled himself along the floor till he got hold of a post, up which he clambered, to hide himself among the rafters. When his companions arrived the ghost was found to be a pet ram, addicted, like its kind, to butting.

HAUNTED HOUSES.

Some half a century ago or more a native of Rannoch resided at Bonskeid (Bonn-sgaod) in the neighbouring parish of Blair Athole. He was married to a Badenoch woman, who had brought servants with her from her own country. In fact the only servants about the house were from Badenoch. In obedience to the law, which ascribes that which is mysterious to that which is remote, Badenoch was at that time esteemed a great place for witchcraft and things “uncanny.” A series of unaccountable noises and appearances began about the house in Bonskeid. Turnips and peats, thrown by unseen hands, flew about the house, lights were blown out, furniture was mysteriously moved, bedclothes were pulled off, and no one could be sure that an article would be found by him where he had left it. In all this there was no appearance of mortal agency, and the whole business was at once assumed to be the work of evil spirits. A friend from Rannoch, who had been on a visit to the house, declared solemnly (and he was a God-fearing, trustworthy man) that he himself heard the spinning-wheel coming down stairs, and saw it falling in pieces on the floor of the room in which he and the family were sitting, without any visible agency, and without any part of it being broken or injured. He put it together again, and with his own hands carried it upstairs and left it in its original place. He had not sat long after coming down when the wheel again came in the same mysterious manner, and fell in pieces on the floor. On another occasion, as he stood in the byre, a turnip came and knocked the candle out of his hand. To his certain knowledge there was no one in the byre who could have thrown it. These flying turnips came sometimes as if they had been hurled through the wall. The unhappy man, in whose house this occurred, endured the persecution for more than a year, and was sadly broken in health and spirits by the trouble. One day as he stood on the hearth-stone, warming the back of his feet to the fire, the hearth-stone began to move. A Badenoch dark hussy (Caileag dhubh) was at the time standing by, with her elbow rested on the kitchen ‘dresser,’ and her chin on her hand. He observed her smiling, and it struck him she was at the bottom of all this bedevilment. He turned her and all the rest of the Badenoch servants away, and no further disturbance took place.

About twenty years ago, a house in Kilmoluag, Tiree, was the scene of similar disturbances. With one or two exceptions, all the people of the island believed them to be produced by some supernatural evil agency, and all the superstition that with the spread of education had been quietly dying out was revived in renewed vigour. No one could deny the agency of spirits when the evidence was so clear. The annoyance began by the trickling of dirty water, mixed with sand, from the roof. The burning peats were found among the bedclothes, and pebbles in bowls of milk, where no peats or pebbles ought to be; linen was lifted mysteriously from the washing, and found in another room; articles of furniture were moved without being touched by visible hands, and stones flew about the house. The disturbances did not occur during the day, nor when a large company assembled at the house. Several went to lay the ghost, and a good deal of powder and shot was wasted by persons of undoubted courage in firing in the air about the house. The annoyance became so bad, and the advice of “wise people” so positive, that the family removed to another house, in the hope the evil would not follow. The removal, however, had no effect, and it is privately rumoured, the disturbances ceased only when some money that had gone amissing was restored. The cause was never clearly ascertained, but there is reason to suspect it was caused, as all similar disturbances are, by some one suborned for the purpose and shielded from suspicion by a pretended simplicity and terror.

Numerous similar cases, which have occurred in the Highlands, might be instanced. Instances occurring in England, from that of Woodstock downwards, and in the south of Scotland, differ only as the circumstances of the countries do. They all seem to have the same characteristic, the tricks are such as it is perfectly possible for human agency to perform, but it is believed there is no human being about the place who does them. Stones come flying through the windows, as if they were thrown from the sky, and are found lying on the floor; the leg of a wheelbarrow startles two persons engaged within the house in earnest conversation, by coming flying between them through the window, and striking the opposite wall with violence; a peat strikes the incredulous stranger between the shoulders, and he goes home a believer, etc. These cantrips are exaggerated by fear and rumour, till at last the devil is believed to be unusually busy in the locality. Once this belief becomes popular, the delusion is easily carried on.

BÒcain, GOBLINS.

The number of these, resembling Luideag, seen about fords or bridges, and near the public road in lonely places, as has been already said, are numberless. Every unusual sight and sound, in the locality which has the name of being haunted, becomes a goblin to the timorous, and one of the most tiresome forms of ghost stories is, how the narrator was nearly frightened out of his wits (the quantity of which is not mentioned) by a horse standing with outstretched neck, and its head towards him, which he mistook for a gigantic human figure, by a white he-goat in the face of a rock, the plaintive cries of an owl, etc., etc. Most ghosts, however, are dependent not so much on the imagination of the individual spectator as on accumulated rumours, and their explanation is to be sought in men’s love of the marvellous and tendency to exaggeration. On the high road leading from the wood of Nant (Coill’ an Eannd) to Kilchrenan on Lochaweside, two or three summers ago, the traveller was met by a dark shadow, which passed him without his knowing how. On looking after him, he again saw the shadow, but this time moving away, and a little man in its centre, growing less as the shadow moved off. The little man was known as “Bodach beag Chill-a-Chreunain.”

About the same time a ghost haunted the neighbourhood of Inveraray, and caused great annoyance to the post and others travelling late. A man had a tussle with a ghost at Uchdan a Bhiorain dui in Appin, and said it felt in his arms like a bag of wool. Phantom men were to be seen at Uchdan na Dubhaig above Balachulish; at Ath-flÈodair, a ford near Loch Maddy in Uist, ‘things’ are perpetually seen, and it takes a very courageous man to go from Portree home to Braes, in Skye, after dark. A mile above the manse, where the road is most lonely, and near the top of a gradual ascent, sounds of throttling are heard and dark moving objects are seen.

In the island of Coll, the top of the ascent above Grisipol had at one time an evil reputation as a haunted spot. At the summit of the pass, there is a white round rock called Cnoc Stoirr. One night a man, on his way to the west end of Coll, reached the place about midnight, and was joined by a man on horseback. The rider said not a word, and accompanied him for near three miles to the “Round House,” as a house, built for the accommodation of the farm-servants of Breacacha Castle was called. Whenever he attempted to enter any of the houses on the way, the silent horseman came between him and the house and prevented him. When they came to the Round House, the cock crew, and the horseman disappeared over the gate in a flame of fire. The man was lifted into the house, pouring with sweat, and going off in fainting fits.

In Glen Lyon, in Perthshire, there is a village called Caisle, and near it a ford (now a bridge) and ravine called Eas a Chaisle. In the early part of the present century, clods and stones were thrown by unseen hands at parties crossing this ford at night. At last, no one would venture to cross. A harum-scarum gentleman of the neighbourhood, popularly looked upon as an unbeliever and a man without fear of God or man, crossed one night, and the clods as usual began to fly about him. He cried out, “In the name of God I defy all from the pit”; and on his saying this a mysterious sound passed away up the ravine, and clod-throwing at the place was never afterwards heard of.

The district, now forming the parishes of Kilmartin and Kilmichael, at the west end of the Crinan Canal, is known in the neighbourhood as Argyle (Earra-ghaidheal), probably from a Celtic colony from Ireland having settled there first. The people, for instance, of Loch Aweside say of a person going down past Ford, that he is going down to Argyle. In course of time the name has been extended to the county. The public road leading through the district was once infested by a ghost, which caused considerable terror to the inhabitants. A person was got to lay it. He met the ghost and exorcised it in the name of Peter and Paul and John and all the most powerful saints, but it never moved. At last he called out peremptorily, “In the name of the Duke of Argyle, I tell you to get out of there immediately.” The ghost disappeared at once, and was never seen again.