He then told where the lost document was to be found, and disappeared, saying:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Bliadhna, a year, has been derived by writers on Celtic antiquities from Bel-ain, “the ring or circle of Baal,” but the derivation is at variance with etymological analogies, as well as inadmissible from there being no satisfactory evidence that Baalim worship ever extended to the Celtic tribes. It can only be regarded as part of that punning affectation with which Gaelic scholarship is disfigured. The initial bl occurs in many words which have in common the idea of separation, and bliadhna is likely connected with such words as bloigh, a fragment; ball, a spot, a limb, and denotes merely a division, or separate portion, of time.
The notations of the Celtic year belong to the Christian period, old style. If there are any traces of Pagan times they are only such as are to be gathered from a few names and ceremonies.
The four seasons are known as earrach, spring, samhradh, summer, fogharadh, harvest, and geamhradh, winter. The final syllable in each of these names is ràidh, a quarter or season of the year, a space of three months; and the student of Gaelic will note that the long and heavy vowel, of which it consists, is, contrary to the common rule affecting long vowels, shortened and made an apparently indifferent terminal syllable. It is still deemed, in many parts of the Highlands, unlucky to be proclaimed in one quarter of the year and married in the next, and the circumstance is called being “astride on the seasons” (gobhlach mu’n ràidh). It is an old saying, that the appearance of a season comes a month before its actual arrival; mìos roi gach ràidh choltas, i.e. a month before each season, is seen its appearance. The character of the seasons is described in an old riddle,
There can be no doubt the origin of the names given to them belongs to a period anterior to Christianity.
Earrach, spring, is derived from ear, the head, the front, the east. In naming the four quarters of the heavens, the face, as in the case of the Hebrew names, is supposed to be toward the east. The right hand (deas) is the name given to the south, and the adjective tuaitheal, from tuath, the north, means “wrong, to the left, against the sun.” Hence also, toirt fo’n ear, lit. to take a thing from the east, means to observe; earalas, foresight, i.e. the having a thing in view; earar, the day after to-morrow, i.e. the day in front of it. The Latin bos, and the Greek ἔας or ἦς would indicate that the ancient Celtic name of the season was fearrach, and if so it may be connected with fear, vir, a man, the first par excellence, for, before, furasda, easy, etc. Eàrr means the tail, and the long syllable shows it to be only another form of iar, west, behind, after, the opposite of ear. Frequently these names for east and west are known as sear and siar, as e.g. cha-n fhearr an gille shiar na’n gille shear, “the lad from the west is no better than the lad from the east,” that is, it is but six of the one and half a dozen of the other.
Samhradh, summer, according to old glossaries, is from obs. samh, the sun, and means the sun season or quarter. This corresponds with the English name, which is evidently a softened form of sun-mer. Samh is now used to denote “the suffocating smell produced by excessive heat.”[51] In Tiree, it is the name given to the hazy heavy appearance of the Western ocean, and few expressions are more common than samh chuain t-siar, the oppressive feeling of which the uneasy sea on the west side of the island is productive. In the North Hebrides samh means the ocean itself. A common description over the whole Highlands of an intolerable stench is mharbhadh e na samhanaich, i.e. it would kill the savage people living in caves near the ocean, as giants were fabled to do.
Fogharadh, autumn, is likely connected with fogh, said to mean ease, hospitality, and foghainn, to suffice, with the same root idea of abundance.
Geamhradh, winter; Lat. hiems, Gr. χεῖμα. No doubt geamh is of the same origin as the Greek and Latin words, but it does not find its explanation in the Greek χεω, to pour. From its being found in gèamhlag, a crow-bar, gèimheal, a chain, geamhtach, short, stiff, and thick, there seems to have been a Gaelic root implying to bind, to be stiff, which gives a suitable derivation for the name of the season of frost and ice.
Mios, a month, is supposed to be connected with mias, a round platter, from the moon’s round orb completing its circle within the month. Greek μήν, Eol. μεις, a month; Lat. mensis; Sanscr. mâsas, a month, mâs, the moon. These show that undoubtedly the origin of the word is connected with the moon. The names in the Greek, Latin, and Teutonic languages show that there was originally an n in the word, and the Gaelic, as well as Sanscrit, bears testimony to the same fact, by the long vowel. It is a common thing in Hebrew for n at the end of a syllable and in the middle of a word to be assimilated to an immediately succeeding consonant, and it is more likely it so disappeared in some languages than that it was assumed by others. Another Gaelic name for the moon, ré, is also used to denote a portion of time; ri mo ré, during my lifetime.
Computation of time, however, by months and days of the month, as at present, was entirely unknown to the Highlander of former days; and even yet, the native population do not say “on such a day of such a month,” but so many days before or after the beginning of summer or other season, or before and after certain well-known term days and festivals, as St Bride’s day, St Patrick’s day, Whitsunday (caingis), Hallowtide (Samhuinn), etc. The time is always reckoned by the old style, and this difference of notation is at first confusing to a stranger. For instance, when told that the ling fishing on the West Coast lasts from the middle of spring till five weeks of summer, it will take a little thought on his part to realise that this means from the beginning of April to about the 18th of June. Names for the months are to be found in dictionaries, but they are obviously manufactured from the Latin names, and confined to modern printed Gaelic.
A connected account of the festivals and days by which the year was marked, must begin with the festivities by which its advent was celebrated.
The seven days from Christmas to the New Year were called Nollaig, and in the good easy-going olden times no work was done during them, but men gave themselves up to friendly festivities and expressions of goodwill. Hence the sayings, “The man whom Christmas does not make cheerful, Easter will leave sad and tearful,”[52] and “There is no Christmas without flesh.”[53] Christmas day was called “the day of big Nollaig” (Latha Nollaig mhór), and the night before it “the night of Cakes” (oidhche nam bannagan); while New-Year day was known as “the day of little Nollaig” (Latha Nollaig bhig), and the night before it “the night of blows” (oidhche nan Calluinnean).
The name Nollaig is from the Latin natalis, as is made certain by the Welsh word being Nadolig; and therefore corresponds to the English Christmas. Various explanations are given of the name of the night before it. Some say bannag means “a feast of women,” from bean, a wife, a feast of rejoicing, such as is customary when a child is born, being prepared by women this evening in memory of the birth of Christ. Others say the bannag is the cake presented by them to every one who entered the house that night. If the word means a cake, it is only applied to Christmas cakes or those used on this day. When there was a person of means, he took every one he met that week, especially the poor, to his house, and gave him his bannag, a large round cake (bonnach mòr cruinn).
New-Year’s night, or Hogmanay, was variously known as “the night of the candle” (oidhche Choinnle) and “the night of the blows or pelting” (oidhche nan Calluinnean, a Challuinn). The former name may have been derived from some religious ceremonies being performed by candle-light, as is suggested to be the origin of the English name Candlemas (2nd February), or from a candle being kept lighted till the New Year came in. The other name is said to be from the showers of rattling blows given to a dry cow’s hide used in the ceremonies of the evening, colluinn being also used to denote a thundering blow, or what is called in the Lowlands “a loundering lick” (stràic mhòr). Thus, thug e aon cholluinn air (he gave him one resounding blow); bi tu air do dheagh cholluinneachadh (you will be severely beaten). The word, however, as was long ago pointed out by Lhuyd (Archæologia Britannica, 1707) is from Calendae, the first day of every month, this being the beginning of the whole year, and the night being in the Highlands reckoned as preceding the day.
Towards evening men began to gather and boys ran about shouting and laughing, playing shinty, and rolling “pigs of snow” (mucan sneachda), i.e. large snowballs. The hide of the mart or winter cow (seiche a mhairt gheamhraidh) was wrapped round the head of one of the men, and he made off, followed by the rest, belabouring the hide, which made a noise like a drum, with switches. The disorderly procession went three times deiseal, according to the course of the sun (i.e. keeping the house on the right hand) round each house in the village, striking the walls and shouting on coming to a door:
Before this request was complied with, each of the revellers had to repeat a rhyme, called Rann Calluinn (i.e. a Christmas rhyme), though, as might be expected when the door opened for one, several pushed their way in, till it was ultimately left open for all. On entering each of the party was offered refreshments, oatmeal bread, cheese, flesh, and a dram of whisky. Their leader gave to the goodman of the house that indispensable adjunct of the evening’s mummeries, the Caisein-uchd, the breast-stripe of a sheep wrapped round the point of a shinty stick. This was then singed in the fire (teallach), put three times with the right-hand turn (deiseal) round the family, and held to the noses of all. Not a drop of drink was given till this ceremony was performed. The Caisein-uchd was also made of the breast-stripe or tail of a deer, sheep, or goat, and as many as choose had one with them.
The house was hung with holly to keep out the fairies, and a boy, whipped with a branch of it, may be assured he will live a year for every drop of blood he loses. This scratching and assurance were bestowed by boys on one another, and was considered a good joke.
Cheese was an important part of the refreshments, and was known as the Christmas cheese (Càise Calluinn). A slice, cut off at this feast, or a piece of the rind (cùl na mulchaig), if preserved and with a hole made through it, has strange virtues. It was called laomachan, and a person losing his way during the ensuing year, in a mist or otherwise, has only to look through the hole and he will see his way clearly. By scrambling to the top of the house, and looking through it down the fàr-lus (the hole in the roof that served in olden times for chimney and window), a person can ascertain the name of his or her future husband or wife. It will prove to be the same as that of the first person seen, or heard named. A piece of laomachan is also valuable for putting under one’s pillow to sleep over.
In this style the villagers, men and boys, went from house to house, preceded in many cases by a piper, and drowning the animosities of the past year in hilarity and merriment.
In general the rhymes used, when seeking admittance, varied but little in different districts. Sometimes an ingenious person made a rhyme suitable to the place and people, and containing allusions to incidents and character that increased the prevailing fun. The following is one of the most common of the class:
The following New-Year’s rhyme must have tried the breath of the speaker and the patience of his listeners considerably. It consists probably of several separate rhymes tagged together, and the allusions it contains to the “big clerk of the street,” etc., make it highly probable the ceremonies of the evening were remains of the Festival of Fools, and had their origin in the streets of Rome. The rhyme is given as it came to hand.
The following rhyme was appointed for all who had nothing else to say:
It was a practice not to be neglected to keep the fire alive in the house all night. No one was to come near it but a friend, and, as an additional security against its going out, candles were kept burning. Hence, the other name given to the night, Oidhche Choinnle, i.e. candle night. There was a rhyme (which the writer has not been able to recover) to be said when feeding the fire. By this means evil was kept away from the house for the subsequent year. If the fire went out no kindling could be got next day from any of the neighbours. The first day of the year was a quarter-day, on which it was unlucky to give fire out of the house. It gave the means to witches and evilly-disposed people to do irreparable mischief to the cattle and their produce. The dying out of the fire was, therefore, a serious inconvenience in days when lucifer matches were unknown. The women made use of the occasion to bake bread for next day.
Old men, provident of the future, watched with interest the wind the old year left (ghaoth dh’fhàgas a Choluinn). That would prove the prevailing wind during the ensuing year, and indicated its chief characteristics, as the rhyme says:
(Latha na Bliadhn’ ùr); also called the Day of Little Christmas (Latha nollaige bige).
On getting up in the morning the head of the family treated all the household to a dram. After that a spoonful of half-boiled sowens (cabhruich leth-bhruich), the poorest food imaginable, was given for luck. Sometimes the sowens were whole boiled, and in some places the well-to-do farmer’s wife left a little over night at the house of every poor man on the farm. The custom of having this dish of sowens was known in the central Highlands, and in Lorn, but does not seem to have extended to Mull, Morven, or the Western Islands. The salutations of the season were duly given by the household to one another, and to every person they met: “A good New Year to you” (Bliadhna mhath ùr dhuit), “The same to you, and many of them” (Mar sin duit fhein is mòran diu). The boys rushed away out, to play at their everlasting game of shinty, and a more sumptuous breakfast than ordinary was prepared.
Nothing was allowed to be put out of the house this day, neither the ashes of the fire nor the sweepings of the house, nor dirty water, nor anything else, however useless, or however much in the way. It was a very serious matter to give fire out of the house to a neighbour whose hearth had become cold, as the doing so, as already said, gave power to the evil-minded to take away the produce from the cattle. Indeed it was ominous that death would occur in the household within the year. Hospinian tells that at Rome, on New-Year’s Day, no one would allow a neighbour to take fire out of his house, or anything composed of iron (Ellis’s Brand’s Antiquities, i. 13).
It was unlucky for a woman to be the first to enter the house, or if the person were empty-handed. A young man entering with an armful of corn was an excellent sign of the year’s prosperity; but a decrepit old woman asking kindling for her fire was a most deplorable omen. The same belief that some people are lucky as first-foots led to the “curious custom” in the Isle of Man known as the Quaaltagh (Ellis’s Brand, i. 538). That word differs only in spelling from the Gaelic còmhalaich, or còmhaltaich, a person, the meeting of whom is ominous of good or bad fortune. To ensure a good omen, a party of young men went in every parish in Man from house to house on New-Year’s Day singing luck to the inmates. It was deemed an omen of good to see the sun this day.
Towards mid-day the men gathered in some suitable place, the largest and most level field in the neighbourhood, for the great Shinty Match (Iomain mhòr). A match was formed between adjoining districts and villages, or, if the village itself was populous, by two leaders, appointed for the purpose, choosing one alternately from those present till the whole gathering was gone through. It was decided who was to choose first by the one leader holding his shinty stick (caman) vertically, or up and down, and throwing it to the other, who caught somewhere about the middle. The two then grasped the stick alternately, the hand of the one being close above that of the other, and the one who grasped the end, so that he could swing the stick three times round his head, had the first choice. Sometimes, to decide the point quickly, one asked the other which he would have, “foot or palm” (chas no bhas), meaning which end of the shinty stick he made choice of, the “foot” being that by which the stick is held, the “palm,” that with which the ball is struck. On a choice being made the club was thrown into the air, and the matter was decided by the point of it that pointed southwardly more summarily than by the “heads and tails” of a copper coin.
In the game a wooden ball (ball) was used in the daytime, when men could guard themselves against being struck by it; but when the game was played at night, in the dusk or by moonlight, a ball of hair or thread called crìod was used. The object of the game was to drive this ball “hail” (thaghal), that is between and beyond certain marks at the two ends of the field. Of course the two parties had opposite “hails.” The play commenced by setting the ball in a suitable place, and giving the first blow, called Buille Bhàraich, to the chief, proprietor, priest, minister or other principal person present. A player stood opposite to him, and if the ball was missed at the first blow, as sometimes happened from excessive deliberation, want of skill and practice, etc., whipped it away in the other direction, and, without further ceremony, every person ran after it as he chose, and hit it as he got opportunity. Two or three of the best players on each side were kept behind their party, “behind hail” (air chùl taghail), as in the game of football, to act as a guard when their adversaries too nearly sent the ball “home.” Sometimes the company was so fairly matched that nightfall put an end to the sport without either party winning “a hail.” Every player got as much exercise as he felt inclined for. Some did little more than walk about the field, others could hardly drag themselves home at night with fatigue. Much can be said in behalf of the game as the best of out-door sports, combining healthy, and, when the player chooses, strong exercise with freedom from horse-play.
A piper played before and after the game. The women, dressed in their best, stood looking on. At the end the chief, or laird, gave a dinner, or, failing him, a number were entertained in the house of a mutual friend. In the evening a ball was given, open to all.
New-Year’s Day, like the first of every quarter of the year (h-uile latha ceann ràidhe), was a great saining day, i.e. a day for taking precautions for keeping away evil from the cattle and houses. Certain ceremonies were carefully observed by the superstitious; juniper was burnt in the byre, the animals were marked with tar, the houses were decked with mountain ash, and the door-posts and walls, and even the cattle, were sprinkled with wine.
By New-Year’s Day the nights have begun to shorten considerably. It is a Gaelic saying that there is “an hour of greater length to the day of little Christmas” (uair ri latha Nollaige bige), and this is explained to be “the hour of the fuel lad” (uair a ghille chonnaidh). The word uair means “a time” as well as an hour; and the meaning perhaps is, that owing to the lengthening of the day the person bringing in firewood has to go one trip less frequently for fuel to make a light.
Christmas Day (La Nollaige mòire) was said to lengthen fad coisichean coilich, a cock’s stride or walk, and the expression was explained to mean that the bird had time to walk to a neighbour’s dunghill, crow three times, and come back again.
The same sayings are current in the Highlands as in the south. “A green Yule makes a fat kirkyard” has its literal counterpart in ’S i Nollaig uaine ni an cladh miagh (i.e. reamhar) and in ’S blianach Nollaig gun sneachda (i.e. Lean is Yule without snow).
There is no reason to suppose that any Pagan rites connected with the period of the winter solstice were incorporated with the Yule or Nollaig ceremonies. The various names connected with the season are of Christian origin; the superstitions, as that of refusing fire and allowing nothing out of the house, can be traced to Rome; the custom of a man dressing himself in a cow’s hide, as suggested by Brand (i. 8), with every probability, is a vestige of the Festival of Fools, long held in Paris on New-Year’s Day, and of which it was part that men clothed themselves in cow-hide (vestiuntur pellibus pecudum). The holding of a singed piece of skin to the noses of the wassailers is more likely to have originated in the frolics of the same festival than in any Pagan observance. The meaning of the custom is obscure, but its character is too whimsical to be associated with any Pagan rite.
(Da latha dheug na Nollaig.)
These were the twelve days commencing from the Nativity or Big Nollaig, and were deemed to represent, in respect of weather, the twelve months of the year. Some say the days should be calculated from New-Year’s Day. “Whatever weather there is on the twelve days beginning with the last of December, the same will agree with the weather in the corresponding month” (Pennant). In Ireland the twelve days were held to stand for the twelve Apostles, and “on Twelve Eve in Christmas they used to set up as high as they can a sieve of oats, and in it a dozen of candles all round, and in the centre one larger, all lighted. This in memory of our Saviour and his Apostles, lights of the world” (Brand, i. 25). The same, no doubt, was the origin of the Highland notation. They are also looked upon as the twelve days between old and new style. There is evidence in the saying, that “an hour and a half is added to Candle Day” (uair gu leth ri Latha Coinnle), that some such custom was known of old in Scotland as in Ireland; and though Candle Night (Oidhche Choinnle) is now a name given to Christmas night, there is a probability it originally denoted Twelve Eve, or the Feast of the Epiphany.
The period during which the above festivities occurred, and sometime before and after Nollaig, was popularly known as “The Black cuttings of Christmas” (Gearra dubha na Nollaig), from its liability to tempestuous weather. The sky is then lowering and dark, the “level” sun gives little warmth, and high winds prevail.
The Dùlachd of winter extended over the six weeks preceding the middle of spring (gu meadhon an Earraich). Some (e.g. Highland Society’s Dict., sub voce) call it Dùbhlachd, and translate it simply “wintry weather.” Others call it Dùdlachd, and denote by it “the depth of winter.” The word is a contraction of duaithealachd, from duaitheil, extremely coarse and rough, an epithet applied to stormy weather. Thus, nach duaitheil an t-sìd? is it not desperately coarse weather? Ceann reamhar an duaithealais, “the thick end of coarseness,” denotes extremely rough usage.
Handsel Monday (Di-luain an t-sainnseil) was the first Monday after New-Year’s Day, and was the principal day in the whole year for deachainn, i.e. for making trials and forecasts of the future. It derives its name from sainnseal, Scot. handsel, a present or gift in his hand given this day to every visitor to a house. Sainnseal sona is “a happy or fortunate present.” In some districts cock-fighting was practised in the schools, and children brought a gratuity (in money) to the schoolmaster. In other districts this was not the case till Shrovetide (Di-màirt Inid).
In Skye the day is called Di-luain Traosda; and it is from it the 12 days, corresponding in weather to the 12 months of the year, are computed.
The name Faoilleach is said to mean “Wolf-month,” from faol, wild, whence also faol-chu, a wolf, lit. a wild dog. It embraces the last 14 days of winter and the first 14 days of spring, the former being called the winter Faoilleach (am Faoilleach geamhraidh), the latter the spring (am Faoilleach Earraich). It is also known as “the Dead Month” (a’ marbh mhiòs). Winter is still ruling the inverted year, and all nature seems to be dead. The trees have long lost their foliage, the grass gives no sign as yet of returning growth, and fields and fallows are bare. When over all there is a coating of snow the name of “Dead Month” appears peculiarly appropriate. The time, being reckoned by old style, corresponds almost exactly to the present month of February, and the saying that “every month in the year curses a fair February.” is amply corroborated by the Gaelic sayings regarding it. Old men liked it to commence with a heavy storm and end with a calm, or (to use their own words) “to come in with the head of a serpent and go out with a peacock’s tail” (tighinn a stigh le ceann na nathrach, ’s dol amach le earball peucaig). There are to be three days of calm during it, according to the saying, “Three days of August in February, and three days of February in August” (trì la Faoilleach san Iuchar, ’s trì la Iuchar san Fhaoilleach). Both the February calm and the August storm, however, have become proverbial for their uncertainty and short duration. “February calm and August wind” (Fia’ Faoilleach is gaoth Iuchar) are the most fickle things in the world. In the north it was said mist in February means snow next day (Ceò san Fhaoilleach, sneachda maireach). Old people said, “Better the land be plundered than a calm morning in February.”[56] The most unreasonable of expectations is to expect black “brambles in February” (smeuran dubha san Fhaoilleach).
It is unfortunate if the heat of this season is such, as old men say they have seen it, that the cattle run with the heat; but it is a healthy sign of the season if men go about with their hands wrinkled with the cold till they resemble an animal’s hoof, and kept in their pockets (anciently belts) for warmth.