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THE writer is sensible
that the preceding stories occupy far too much space in this sketch of
the life of George Brown, but he has found it impossible to abbreviate
them farther without destroying their character as specimens of the
traditional tales which that singular man had collected, and was in the
habit of narrating to delighted audiences during the long winter
evenings.
His fund of this kind of lore seemed inexhaustible. There was not within
the district the ruins or site of an old church or chapel regarding
which he had not gleaned some legend. The names of hills, glades, glens,
corries, streams, and even pools and rapids in the river, had each its
legend which accounted for its origin or related some circumstance
connected with it.
It is a peculiarity of Highlanders—some ethnologists affirm of Celts
universally—to attach a name to every locality, however small, that has
anything distinctive about it These names are mostly pictorial, or
descriptive of physical features; but a large number are also
traditional, or commemorative of some striking event
This latter class, by each of which there hung a tale, formed as it were
an index to the greater part of the legends of the district Accounts of
miracles, generally cases of exorcism of evil spirits, constituted a
principal feature of the legends attached to ancient chapels, while
ghost stories prevailed to a great extent among those relating to ruined
churches, and narratives of strife and blood among those commemorated by
the names of less sacred places. George himself did not share the
superstitious notions of the ignorant around him, and seldom failed to
point out what priestcraft had to do with originating and propagating a
miraculous story or legend
It was not, however, in local traditions alone that he was great He was
conversant with general history, and particularly with the history,
civil and ecclesiastical, of his native country; and delighted much more
to rehearse stories from this source than the wild and unauthenticated
tales of tradition.
With his Bible, both in English and Gaelic, he was so familiar that he
could repeat large portions of it from memory, and rarely could a text
be quoted that he could not instantly refer to its chapter and verse.
The use which his shrewd and acute mind enabled him to make of this
knowledge, procured for him the respect and veneration of a wide circle.
Theological polemics were then the favourite subjects of discussion
among the peasantry. The ignorance of the disputants, so far from
imposing silence on them, only lent keenness to the arguments with which
they supported their views; but their good sense led them very generally
to constitute George sole arbiter of their differences on knotty points
of doctrine and interpretations of obscure passages of Holy Writ, and
from his decisions there seldom or never was any appeal. It was
therefore no unusual thing to find his house filled of an evening with
controversialists who had come to have the matters in dispute between
them adjusted. On these occasions George would take the judicial bench,
and after hearing each party state his views, would lay down the law on
the point with a clearness and gravity that never failed to command
acquiescence.
The annual diet of catechising was, however, his great theological field
day. When the one appointed for the district in which he lived was
announced from the pulpit on the Sabbath preceding, the old people
employed all their leisure hours during the interval in a careful
perusal of the Shorter Catechism with the contents of which, as the text
book, all were expected to be familiar. Punctual to the hour, the
minister presented himself at the house appointed for the meeting, and
having opened the diet with prayer, would request George to take a seat
beside him. He then put a question from the catechism to each all round,
till he came to George, when he would remark—
“I need not ask a question at you, George. I am well aware how familiar
you are with the standards of our church. I shall therefore proceed to
enquire what reason we can give for the hope that is in us.”
When in the course of the examination that followed any one stated a
difficulty he had regarding a point of doctrine or passage of Scripture,
or when an answer of doubtful orthodoxy was received to a query, the
clergyman would turn to George and say—
“What is your opinion on that point, George?”
Thus appealed to, he would handle the question in a manner that always
gave satisfaction to the minister, and raised himself greatly in the
estimation of his fellows.
From the reputation which he thus acquired for learning and wisdom,
other disputes than theological were not infrequently referred to him
for settlement; and in his decisions he invariably sustained a character
which he coveted even more than scholarly reputation—that of peace
maker. He had the rare art of supporting his opinions with short
sententious remarks that generally carried conviction of their wisdom.
Many of these passed into proverbs, and are still occasionally quoted by
the old people of the district
There was, however, one man, though only one in the whole country, on
whose erroneous theological opinions he could make no impression—this
was Walter Stewart Yet, strange to say, though their religious notions
were wide as the poles asunder, the men themselves were staunch and
bosom cronies. It will be better not to interrupt this notice of George
Brown by any account of their intercourse, but to reserve it for a
sketch of Walter, to be given anon.
Around George’s hearth there was now springing up a blooming family of
sons and daughters. The boys were in no way remarkable; but one at least
of the girls—Barbara, or as she was generally called “Babby”—was almost
as celebrated for her beauty as her father for his wisdom and knowledge.
As she grew up to woman’s estate, she attracted to the paternal fireside
many a youth whose heart throbbed with a softer passion than a hankering
after ancient lore or modem news. With sweet features and fair form, she
was also gifted with captivating manners and sparkling wit. Nor was it a
mere hamlet reputation her beauty had gained for her. Wherever she
appeared she won both friends and admirers; so that before she was out
of her teens she was universally acknowledged to be, and styled, “The
Flower o’ Deeside.”
Babby Brown “had many hearts a-keeping;” and widely envied was the youth
for whom she was supposed to have any partiality. Nor were her admirers
confined to her own station in society. It was well enough known that,
among others of the better sort, an officer in His Majesty’s Royal
Militia was deeply smitten by her charms, and for long was most
assiduous in his attentions to her; but both she and her father had the
good sense to discourage his suit
Although Babby was no flirt, yet she was so sprightly that the state of
her own heart was for long either free, or very well concealed. At last,
however, it did begin to be rumoured that there was a favoured one among
her numerous wooers. This was Peter Frankie. Peter was in all respects
an eligible match, and, however many might be disappointed, few were
surprised at the selection she had made. Though her senior by several
years and a widower, he was still young. In personal appearance he was
smart, neat, and active, dressed well, and in short was rather
irresistible. Having been a favourite retainer of the Abergeldie family,
he had been appointed to what was then considered one of the prize
situations of the country—that of gamekeeper at Allt na Giuthsaich, now
one of Her Majesty’s favourite mountain lodges. Such was the man who had
won the heart of the “Flower of Deeside,” and on whom she was about to
bestow her hand.
It is here necessary to interrupt this narrative a little in order to
relate a bogle story, which will lead to its resumption again, with an
account of a melancholy occurrence.
"Gael. Frangach (Frenchman). In a description of the Castle in one of
the author’s note-books, it is stated that there is a dark recess under
the stair called Katie Frankieas Hole, in which a witch of the name was
confined before being burnt on the top of Craignaban. She was a
Frenchwoman. —D.
The ghost or bogle story might have been omitted for any connection it
has with this history; but because it is a fair specimen of such tales,
and will re-introduce the narrative in the words of a contemporary of
the events, it may not be amiss to relate it
“I’m no believer in ghosts an’ witches mysel’,” usually began the person
on whose authority the following account rests, who was a man of strict
veracity and by no means superstitious, and whose very words the writer
believes he can now give, so often has he heard the tale, and so strong
a hold did it take of his boyish mind—
“I’m no believer in ghosts and witchcraft and sic like things mysel’,
but this that I am ga’an to tell you, I saw wi’ my ain een, though what
it was I’ll no pretend to say.
“So far as I can remember, it was in the year ’23. In the go-hairst,
when the black fish were coming on to the redds, I and a cousin took it
into our heads to go down one evening to the Craiguise, to hole some fir
to make blazes. I mind weel it was on a Monday night; and down we went,
and crossed over at the foot o’ Polslaig. We met wi’ some disturbance in
the wood, and had to come back without our errand.
“As we were coining up the water side at the haughs o’ Easter Micras, we
fell in wi’ an auld-fashioned ploo that the man had been fauchan* wi’.
We were feelish young men then, and we didna care muckle what we did gin
we got fun, an’ ‘the mair mischief the better sport,’ as the saying is.
But nae good ever comes o’ that Howsomever, that’s the humour we were in
that night; and so we began to joke about the ploo, an’ at last took it
up an’ threw it ower the bank, on to the stunners (river beach), thinkan’
it would be sic a fine joke, as we would likely hear a story in a day or
twa how that the kelpie had been tryan’ to make aflf wi* the ploo.
“We hadna come awa’ many hunder yards, when my cousin, he stops, and
says he, *What's that on the other side o’ the water?"
“Now, if ye mind, there’s a sheet o’ backwater at the head o’ Polslaig.
The night wasna dark; the meen was like a quarter auld, but gey well on
to the setting. Aweel, I looks across, an9 sees something white swimman’
round and round about at the upper end o9 the backwater, an9 says I—
“‘That’s surely ane o9 the Abergeldie deuks that is come down the water
an9 tint the rest'
“‘Whatever it is,9 says he, 1 let 9s hae a shot at it wi9 a stane'
“Wi' that we fell to; but still it never minded the stanes, but kept
swimman9 round an' round as before. This made us a' the mair determined
to put it out there, but it never minded us, only it began to look
bigger an9 bigger.
“‘It’s nae a deuk,” says I, ‘ its ane o9 the Abergeldie geese, an' I
think we should let it alane, for we may chance to strike it, an kill
it'
“‘Whatever it is,9 says he, ‘we should be able to make it shift its
quarters.'
“After a little it did shift, and began to leave the backwater, and come
across the stanners, makan' straight for where we were. I mind we
thought that queer, but we made sure o' hittan' 't now, as it looked as
big as a sheep. But no. On it came, and before it got to the water edge
it was black instead o9 white.
“‘Whatever it is,' says my cousin, ‘ I’ll gie 9t a sair hide gin it
comes farther.'
“Wi' that he sets about gatheran9 some stanes to throw at it I threw ane
or twa I had in my hand, and wondered that I didna hit it, and syne I
fell a gatheran’ st&nes tee that we might baith charge it thegither.
When I had gathered half a dozen good bumlacks out o’ the land, I lookit
round, but my cousin wasna there. He had taen to his heels, and was
makan’ for the road as fast as his legs could cany him. I gave a look at
the thing, and there it was in the middle o’ the water, as big’s a calf.
“You may be sure, when ance we set out we werena lang on the road, and
we had run near a mile before either o’’s spak a word. At last, says I
to him—
“'What gart ye run aff yon way, man?'
“‘Run!’ says he; ‘it was time to run ! didna ye see the horns on’t an’
the licht in its een?’
“Now, I saw nae sic thing, but at the same time I did think it was
unearthly like.
“Weel, we made straight for George Brown’s; and we didna meet nor see a
body dll we met Babby Brown at her ain father’s door. We didna wait to
speak lang to her, but gaed in and told auld George a’ that had
happened.
“Weel, lads,' says he, ‘I canna but think ye were needan’ a fleg. Ye
shouldna hae meddled wi’ the honest man’s ploo, and I hope it will be a
lesson to you for the time to come.’
“After that we put bye our forenight wi’ George; and I thought Babby
wasna sae cherry as she used to be, but maybe that was only my ain
thought She was aye sae cheery an’ sae fu’ o’ fun, but that night she
hardly spak a word, though we expeckit she wid tease us for being sae
coordly.
“I’ve aften thought on this since, and aften considered what the thing
we saw could be, but to this day I canna mak’ it out; and what happened
afterwards made it stranger still*
“Aweel, time passed by, and we said naething mair about that night’s
business for fear o’ folk makan’ a story o’’t, and sayan’ we had seen
the kelpie, and the go-hairst came round again. Syne Babby Brown was
marriet to Peter Frankie. She was to stop a week or twa at her father’s
after the marriage, till the house at Allt na Giuthsaich would be put in
order for her; and, as she was sae vera weel liket, a’ the neighbours
were askan’ her to their houses afore she gaed awa’. Ane o’ the first
places she an’ Peter were to go to was Mr. Smart’s, at the Mains o’
Abergeldie, as he was a great friend o’ Peter’s.
“It was a Sunday afternoon that they gaed across at the cradle. The
water wasna what ye would ca’ in spate, but far ower big for wadan’ in
ony place, for there had been a good sup rain the nicht afore.
“After supper time (9 p.m.) some o’ our folk chanced to be out about the
doors, and came in cryan’—
“‘Men, men! there’s something nae richt about the cradle. There ’s
lichts ga’an up an’ down the water in a fearsomelike way. Run, run, an’
see that naething has happened! ’
“We that were men were aff in a minute, and the rest soon followed, but
there was some folk nearer at han’ there afore’s.
“I’ll never forget that night—women, no kennan’ what to do, runnan’
about, an’ cryan’—
Oh! can naething be done, can naething be done? Babby Brown’s lost!
Babby Brown’s lost 1 ’ And the folk at the Castle and the Mains wi’
lichts an’ lanterns runnan’ here and there on the ither side, and cryan’
across.
“I saw in a moment what had happened; for there was the rope floatan’
down the water. The nicht was vera dark, •but I an’ twa or three ither
young fellows took a haud o’ ither’s hands, and in we jumped to try to
get at the rope, thinkan’ they might still be haudan’ on to it The
stream was awful strong, and we had enough ado to keep our feet At last
we reached it, but there was naething there—neither sicht nor soun’, but
the sough o’ the water ga’an swirlan’, swirlan’ doom
“A’ hope o’ recoveran’ them alive was now at an end, but we couldna gae
hame. The hail countra was soon gathered, but what could they do? Down,
down the water edge they wandered, peeran’ into the dark stream to see
if they could notice onything tumblan’, or ony sight o’ the lost bodies.
Oh, it was a waesome night!
“Peer auld George! It would hae melted a heart o’ stane to hae seen him,
seldom speakan’ a word to anybody; but what he did say was like a meek
an’ humble Christian, as he was. Now and then he would step close up to
the water edge as gin something had caught his sight in the stream; but
we a’ kent it was only to hide his grief, for instead o’ lookan’ into
the water he would bring the comer o’ his grey plaid up to his een, an’
mony’s the saut tear that fell into’t that sorrowfu’ night
“Ance somebody thought he saw something tumblan’ wi’ the water, and
there was a rush to the place, but if there was onything mair than the
swirl o’ the stream ower the head o’ a stane, we couldna find it out
“It was just a little after this, when the folk were spreadan’
themselves down the water side, that I chanced to come upon George among
some am bushes. He thought that they had a’ gane past him, and that he
was alane. I noticed that he was on his knees, an’ coveran’ his face wi’
his grey plaid. A kind o’ an awe came ower me, and I creepit awa’ saftly
that I mightna disturb him; for my ain heart tell’t me he should be left
to the company he had chosen himsel9. I could hae heard what he was
sayan9, for he was speakan1 like under his breath, but a’ that I catch’t
as I was creepan9 awa* was—
‘“She was my favourite bairn, and fain would I that Thou hadst spared
her whilst Thou wast pleased to spare me; but not my will, but Thine be
done.9
“When I saw him next I couldna but think he was less waesome than afore.
“After mair than three hours had been spent in vain search in the dark,
where should Babby Brown9s body be gotten, but just on the very stanners
where my cousin an9 me saw that nasty thing the nicht we were at the
Craiguise ? And what made it more strange still was that it was just
that nicht twelvemonth by-gane that we saw it I9m nae believer in ghosts
an9 sic like superstitions, and maybe it was mere chance; but, whatever
it was, it was the strangest thing that I ever met wi.'"
The bogle story is by no means difficult of explanation. The two youths
had been engaged in an illicit affair during the evening, and their
consciences were probably none of the easiest Add to this that their
imaginations had been teeming with supernatural fancies—they had
actually been engaged in plotting a kelpie farce—and we shall find their
minds in a high state of preparedness for magnifying any optical
delusion into a supernatural apparition. An object to excite the fancy
might be and probably was supplied by the pale beams of the setting moon
streaming through the trees and reflected on the water. To this, motion
could easily have been given by the wind moving the boughs. Nor is the
change of colour inexplicable. A struggling ray might, as the moon
pursued her course, be intercepted by a thick trunk, and thus a dark
shadow would be cast where before there was a reflected moonbeam. Much
less than such a change from light to shade would have sufficed to raise
the phantom they imagined they saw.
That one of the bodies should have been found there is not at all
surprising, because in making a sharp turn, the river spreads out over a
shallow, and nothing was more likely than that a heavy body borne along
by the stream should be stranded there.
It is, however, by no means probable that the above or any similar
explanation would have been satisfactory to the mind of the honest man,
who saw the “ nasty thing,” as he was in the way of calling the vision.
He always held it to be inexplicable, and having, by a general
declaration of his disbelief in “ kelpies, ghosts, an' sic like things,”
vindicated himself from any suspicion that he entertained superstitious
notions regarding it, he indicated that he had said all that could be
said, and that his tale was told.
Reverting to the sad death of Babby Brown, the inquisitiveness of some
youthful listener usually extracted the following observation connected
with it—
Listener “And was Peter Frankie got at the same place as Babby Brown?”
“Na, na, laddie, it was mair than a week afore his body was gotten; an’
there’s no sayan’ when it would hae been gotten had it not been for auld
John MacRay. John was aye remarkable for the clearness o’ his eye-sicht
He could hae seen things nae ither body could see, baith near at hand
and far awa’, but mair especially in the water. He could hae seen trouts
there when ither folk couldna see salmon.
“Aweel, ye see, ae day, after the river had fa’an in a bit, John gaed
out wi’ some o’ his neighbours to hae a look o’ the water down about
Coilacreich, but instead o’ keepan’ close by the brink like the rest, he
climbed up a tree on a heich bank near a quarter o’ a mile out ower.
"After lookan’ a whilie, he cries down to the ithers, ‘ I see him.’
“At first they misdoubted John, but says he, ‘ I’m sure I see Peter
Frankie’s white waistcoat, an’ gin ye dinna believe me, wade in where
I’ll tell ye, an’ see for yersels.’
“They did sae, and there they got the body stickan’ on a stane in the
middle o’ the water.”
Listener. “An’ was it ever found out how the cradle rope broke?”
“No, laddie, that has aye been a mystery. Some said that it was a rotten
spar that broke, an’ let the rope run off; but there were slooms that it
had been meddled wi’; God knows. If it was sae, may the Lord have mercy
on their souls that did it”
Listener. “ But what could hae gart ony body dee sic a fearful thing as
that?”
“There’s nae good rakan’ up auld suspicions; an’ far be it f’ae me to
hurt onybody’s character, when I ken so little about it”
Listener. “Was there ever ony ither body lost at the cradle but just
Babby Brown an’ Peter Frankie?”
“Aye was there, laddie, lang, lang ago, when I was about your age, there
was a gauger o’ the name o’ Bruce lost. But there was nae wonder, or
vera muckle sorrow that time.”
Listener. “Foo did it
happen ? Tell’s about it”
“Weel, ye see, Bruce had got word that there was smuggling ga’an on i’
the ither side o’ the water, I think they said it was about Clachantum,
an9 ower he would be. The Dee was in perfect flood, fae bank to brae,
an’ nane o’ the boats would venture out He raged at the boatman o’
Monaltrie, an’ ca’d him a coord, till the man thought he wasna richt in
his mind, or else he was fated But a’ wouldna dee; the boatman had mair
sense, an’ wouldna risk on the water.
“Bruce was a headstrong man, an’, as he thought there was a plot to keep
him f ae gettan’ at the smugglers, he was the mair determined to be at
them. At last he comes to the cradle, an’ though there was as muckle
water ga’an down the haughs o’ Torgalter, as there is sometimes in the
Dee itself, he waded in through till he came to the post. As the man
that wrought the cradle wasna very willan’ to venture, for the water
wasna far f’ae touchan the rope, Bruce swore that, if he wouldna come
for him he would go across sprawlan’ on’s hands an’ feet
“Weel, the man risks, jumps into the cradle, an’ off he goes. He got to
this side quite safe, though the water was just touchan’ his feet i’ the
middle. But as they were ga’an back, the weight o’ the twa brought the
rope further down, .an’ just as they were in the mids, the water catched
them. Snap went the post on this side, and they were baith plunged into
the roaring river. Bruce was a capital swimmer, but the man could swim
nane, but he held on to the rope, and the force o’ the water was so
great that it soon swung him to the side. The people at the Castle were
ready to catch at it as soon as it came within reach, an’ there they got
the man haudan’ on wi’ a death grip; but Bruce was gone, an’ he was
never mair seen alive.
“Weeks after this his body was gotten on ane o’ the islands o’
Polcholaig, mair than six miles down the water. There was little mane
made for Bruce, as it was his ain rashness that had caused his death and
endangered the ither man’s life as weel But for Babby Brown and Peter
Frankie, naething in my day has happened in this country that caused sae
muckle sorrow.”
The melancholy death of his favourite daughter produced an effect on
George Brown’s mind from which he never wholly recovered. In addition to
this, the infirmities of age were creeping on him apace; and although he
still took an interest in his former studies, the tone of his
conversation was more subdued, and his manner of life, never wanting in
gravity, now became almost solemn.
His society, however, lost none of its charms for the young. By them his
fireside was more than ever frequented, and in them he seemed, with
advancing years, to evince a growing interest The patriarchal character
has in it a halo of kindness and wisdom peculiarly attractive to
youthful minds. But besides this character which George so well
sustained, he possessed the gift, always indicative of a sound moral
constitution, of entering heartily into their fancies and feelings.
During his remaining uneventful years, he still paid occasional visits
to the manse and schoolhouse of Crathie; and not infrequently would be
seen, staff in hand, making his way with faltering steps over the hills
to the manse of Glen-gaim, where he was not only a welcome, but a valued
visitor.
At last, in a good old age he was gathered to his fathers on the 9th day
of February, 1828; and his mortal remains were conveyed with more
respect and regret than those of any man in his station in the present
or last generation to their kindred dust in the churchyard of Crathie.
The writer regrets that no tombstone marks the place where repose the
ashes of a man so notable in his time and station, and who for no little
good in his limited sphere, “Has left his footprints on the sands of
time and would express the hope that, while a few still remain who can
point out the spot, this desideratum may be supplied."
The grave is still unmarked. Old people can remember when the churchyard
contained only two or three tombstones. The practice was to place
headstones on the graves, inscribed merely with the initials of the
deceased.—D.
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