KIRK’S
SECRET COMMONWEALTH.
The bibliography of the following little tract is
extremely obscure. The title-page of the edition
of 1815, which we reproduce, gives the date as
1691. Sir Walter Scott says in his Demonology
and Witchcraft (1830, p. 163, note), “It was
printed with the author’s name in 1691, and reprinted,
in 1815, for Longman & Co.” But was
there really a printed edition of 1691? Scott
says that he never met with an example. Research
in our great libraries has discovered none,
and there is none save that of 1815 at Abbotsford.
The reprint, of one hundred copies, was
made, as it states, from no printed text, but from
“a manuscript copy preserved in the Advocates’
Library.” On page 45 of the edition of 1815,
at the end of the comments on Lord Tarbott’s
Letters, there is a “Note by the Transcriber”—that
is, the person who wrote out the manuscript
in the Advocates’ Library: “See the rest
in a little manuscript belonging to Coline Kirk.”
Now Coline or Colin Kirk, Writer to the Signet,
was the son of the Rev. Mr. Kirk, author of the
tract. If the son had his father’s book only in
manuscript, it seems very probable that it was
not printed in 1691; that the title-page is only
the title-page of a manuscript. Till some printed
text of 1691 is discovered, we may doubt, then,
whether the hundred copies published in 1815,
and now somewhat rare, be not the original
printed edition. The editor has a copy of 1815,
but it is the only one which he has met with
for sale.
The Rev. Robert Kirk, the author of The
Secret Commonwealth, was a student of theology
at St. Andrews: his Master’s degree, however,
he took at Edinburgh. He was (and this is
notable) the youngest and seventh son of Mr.
James Kirk, minister of Aberfoyle, the place
familiar to all readers of Rob Roy. As a seventh
son, he was, no doubt, specially gifted, and in
The Secret Commonwealth he lays some stress on
the mystic privileges of such birth. There may
be “some secret virtue in the womb of the
parent, which increaseth until the seventh son
be borne, and decreaseth by the same degree
afterwards.” It would not surprise us if Mr.
Kirk, no less than the Rev. Robert Blair of
St. Andrews (1650-60), could heal scrofula by
the touch, like royal persons—Charles III. in
Italy, for example. As is well known to all,
the House of Brunswick has no such powers.
However this may have been, Mr. Kirk was
probably drawn, by his seventh sonship, to a
more careful study of psychical phenomena than
most of his brethren bestowed. Little is known
of his life. He was minister originally of Balquidder,
whence, in 1685, he was transferred to
Aberfoyle. This was no Covenanting district,
and there is no bigotry in Mr. Kirk’s dissertation.
He was employed on an “Irish” translation
of the Bible, and he published a Psalter
in Gaelic (1684). He married, first, Isobel,
daughter of Sir Colin Campbell of Mochester,
who died in 1680, and, secondly, the daughter
of Campbell of Fordy: this lady survived him.
From his connection with Campbells, we may
misdoubt him for a Whig. By his first wife he
had a son, Colin Kirk, W.S.; by his second
wife, a son who was minister of Dornoch. He
died (if he did die, which is disputed) in 1692,
aged about fifty-one; his tomb was inscribed—
ROBERTUS KIRK, A.M.
Linguæ Hiberniæ Lumen.
The tomb, in Scott’s time, was to be seen in
the east end of the churchyard of Aberfoyle;
but the ashes of Mr. Kirk are not there. His
successor, the Rev. Dr. Grahame, in his Sketches
of Picturesque Scenery, informs us that, as Mr.
Kirk was walking on a dun-shi, or fairy-hill, in
his neighbourhood, he sunk down in a swoon,
which was taken for death. “After the ceremony
of a seeming funeral,” writes Scott (op.
cit., p. 105), “the form of the Rev. Robert
Kirk appeared to a relation, and commanded
him to go to Grahame of Duchray. ‘Say to
Duchray, who is my cousin as well as your own,
that I am not dead, but a captive in Fairyland;
and only one chance remains for my liberation.
When the posthumous child, of which my wife
has been delivered since my disappearance, shall
be brought to baptism, I will appear in the
room, when, if Duchray shall throw over my
head the knife or dirk which he holds in his
hand, I may be restored to society; but if this
is neglected, I am lost for ever.’” True to his
tryst, Mr. Kirk did appear at the christening,
and “was visibly seen;” but Duchray was so
astonished that he did not throw his dirk over
the head of the appearance, and to society Mr.
Kirk has not yet been restored. This is extremely
to be regretted, as he could now add
matter of much importance to his treatise.
Neither history nor tradition has more to tell
about Mr. Robert Kirk, who seems to have been
a man of good family, a student, and, as his
book shows, an innocent and learned person.
The tract, of which the reader now knows the
history, is a little volume of somewhat singular
character. Written in 1691 by the Rev. Robert
Kirk, minister of Aberfoyle, it is a kind of
metaphysic of the Fairy world. Having lived
through the period of the sufferings of the Kirk,
the author might have been expected either to
neglect Fairyland altogether, or to regard it as
a mere appanage of Satan’s kingdom—a “burning
question” indeed, for some of the witches
who suffered at Presbyterian hands were merely
narrators of popular tales about the state of the
dead. That she trafficked with the dead, and
from a ghost won a medical recipe for the cure
of Archbishop Adamson of St. Andrews, was
the charge against Alison Pearson. “The
Bischope keipit his castle lyk a tod in his holl,
seik of a disease of grait fetiditie, and oftymes
under the cure of women suspected of witchcraft,
namlie, wha confessit hir to haiff
learnit medecin of ane callit Mr. Wilyeam Simsone,
that apeired divers tymes to hir efter his
dead, and gaiff hir a buik.... She was execut
in Edinbruche for a witch” (James Melville’s
Diary, p. 137, 1583). The Archbishop, like
other witches, had a familiar in the form of a
hare, which once ran before him down the
street. These were the beliefs of men of learning
like James, the nephew and companion of
Andrew Melville. Even in our author’s own
time, Archbishop Sharp was accused of entertaining
“the muckle black Deil” in his study at
midnight, and of being “levitated” and dancing
in the air. This last feat, creditable to a saint or
a Neo-Platonist like Plotinus, was reckoned for
sin to Archbishop Sharp, as may be read in
Wodrow’s Analecta. Thus all Fairydom was
commonly looked on as under the same guilt as
witchcraft. Yet Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle, living
among Celtic people, treats the land of faery as
a mere fact in nature, a world with its own
laws, which he investigates without fear of the
Accuser of the Brethren. We may thus regard
him, even more than Wodrow, as an early
student in folk-lore and in psychical research—topics
which run into each other—and he
shows nothing of the usual persecuting disposition.
Nor, again, is Mr. Kirk like Glanvil
and Henry More. He does not, save in his
title-page and in one brief passage, make superstitious
creeds or psychical phenomena into
arguments and proofs against modern Sadducees.
Firm in his belief, he treats his matter in a
scientific spirit, as if he were dealing with
generally recognised physical phenomena.
Our study of Mr. Kirk’s little tractate must
have a double aspect. It must be an essay
partly on folk-lore, on popular beliefs, their relation
to similar beliefs in other parts of the
world, and the residuum of fact, preserved by
tradition, which they may contain. On the
other hand, as mental phenomena are in question—such
things as premonitions, hallucinations,
abnormal or unusual experiences generally—a
criticism of Mr. Kirk must verge on “Psychical
Research.” The Society organised for that
difficult subject certainly takes a vast deal of
trouble about all manner of odd reports and
strange visions. It “transfers” thoughts of no
value, at a great expense of time and of serious
hard work. But, as far as the writer has read
the Society’s Proceedings, it “takes no keep,”
as Malory says, of these affairs in their historical
aspect. Whatever hallucination, or illusion, or
imposture, or the “subliminal self” can do to-day,
has always been done among peoples in
every degree of civilisation. An historical study
of the topic, as contained in trials for witchcraft,
in the reports of travellers and missionaries, in
the works of the seventeenth-century Platonists,
More, Glanvill, Sinclair, and others, and in the
rare tracts such as The Devil in Glen Luce and
The Just Devil of Woodstock, not to mention
Lavater, Wierus, Thyræus, Reginald Scott, and
so on, is as necessary to the psychologist as to
the folk-lorist.[1] If there be an element of fact
in modern hypnotic experiments (a matter on
which I have really no opinion), it is plain that
old magic and witchcraft are not mere illusions,
or not commonplace illusions. The subliminal
self has his stroke in these affairs. Assuredly
the Psychologists should have an historical department.
The evidence which they would find
is, of course, vitiated in many obvious ways, but
the evidence contains much that coincides with
that of modern times, and the coincidence can
hardly be designed—that is to say, the old
Highland seers had no design of abetting modern
inquiry. It may be, however, that their methods
and ideas have been traditionally handed down
to modern “sensitives” and “mediums.” At all
events, here is an historical chapter, if it be but
a chapter in “The History of Human Error.”
These wide and multifarious topics can only be
touched on lightly in this essay; the author will
be content if he directs the attention of students
with more leisure and a better library of diablerie
to the matter. But first we glance at The Secret
Commonwealth as folk-lorists.
Mr. Kirk’s first chapter, “Of the Subterranean
Inhabitants,” naturally suggests the recent speculations
of Mr. MacRitchie. The gist of Mr.
MacRitchie’s Testimony of Tradition is that
there once was a race of earth-dwellers in this
island; that their artificial caves still exist; that
this people survive in popular memory as “the
legendary Feens,” and as the Pechts of popular
tales, in which they are regarded as dwarfs.
“The Pechs were unco wee bodies, but terrible
strang.” Here, then, it might be thought that
we have the origin of Fairy beliefs. There really
was, on this showing, a dwarf race, who actually
did live in the “fairy-hills,” or howes, now commonly
looked on as sepulchral monuments.
There is much in Mr. MacRitchie’s theory
which does not commend itself to me. The
modern legends of Pechts as builders of Glasgow
Cathedral, for example, do not appear to prove
such a late survival of a race known as Picts, but
are on a level with the old Greek belief that the
Cyclopes built Mycenæ (Testimony of Tradition,
p. 72). Granting, for the sake of discussion,
that there were still Picts or Pechs in Galloway
when Glasgow Cathedral was built (in the
twelfth century), these wild Galloway men,
scourges of the English Border, were the very
last people to be employed as masons. The
truth is that the recent Scotch have entirely
forgotten the ages of mediæval art. Accustomed
to the ill-built barns of a robbed and stinted
Kirk, they looked on the Cathedral as no work
of ordinary human beings. It was a creation
of the Pechts, as Mycenæ and Tiryns of the
mighty walls were creations of the Cyclopes.
By another coincidence, the well-known story
of the last Pecht, who refuses to divulge the
secret of the heather ale, is told in the Volsunga
Saga, and in the Nibelungenlied, of the Last
Niflung. Again, the breaking of a bar of iron,
which he takes for a human arm, by the last
Pecht is a tale current of the Drakos in modern
Greece (see Chambers’s Popular Traditions of
Scotland for the last Pecht). I cannot believe
that the historical Picts were a set of half-naked,
dwarfish savages, hairy men living underground.
These are the topics of Sir Arthur
Wardour and Monkbarns. Mr. W. F. Skene
may be said to have put the historic Picts in
their proper place as the ancestors of the Highlanders.
The Pecht of legend answers to the
Drakos and the Cyclopes: the beliefs about his
habits may have been suggested by the tumuli,
still more by the brochs: it seems less probable
that they represent an historical memory. As
to the Irish “Feens,” the topic can only be discussed
by Celtic scholars. But it does not follow,
because the leader of the Feens seemed a dwarf
among giants, that therefore his people were a
dwarfish race.[2] The story proves no more than
Gulliver’s Travels.
Once more, we often read in the Sagas of a
hero like Grettir, who opens a howe, has a
conflict with a “barrow-wight,” as Mr. Morris
calls the “howe-dweller,” and wins gold and
weapons. But the dweller in the howe is often
merely the able-bodied ghost of the Norseman,
a known and named character, who is buried
there; he is not a Pecht. Thus, as it seems to
me, the Scotch and Celts possessed a theory of
a legendary people, as did the Greeks. Whether
any actual traditions of an earlier, perhaps a
Finnish race, was at the bottom of the legend,
is an obscure question. But, having such a
belief, the Scotch easily discovered homes for
the fancied people in the sepulchral howes:
they “combined their information.” The Fairies,
again, are composite creatures. As they came
to births and christenings, and as Norse wise-wives
(as in the Saga of Eric the Red) prophesied
at festivals, Mr. MacRitchie combines his
own information. The Wise-wife is a Finn
woman, and Finn and Fairy amalgamate. But
the Egyptians, as in the Tale of Two Brothers
(Maspero, Contes Egyptiens), had their Hathors,
who came and prophesied at births; the Greeks
had their Mœræ, as in the story of Meleager
and the burning brand. The Hathors and
Mœræ play, in ancient Egypt and in ancient
Greece, the part of Fairies at the christening,
but surely they were not Finnish women! In
short, though a memory of some old race may
have mingled in the composite Fairy belief, this
is at most but an element in the whole, and the
part played by ancestral spirits, naturally earth-dwellers,
is probably more important. Bishop
Callaway has pointed out, in the preface to his
Zulu Tales, that what the Highlanders say of
the Fairies the Zulus say of “the Ancestors.”
In many ways, as when persons carried off to
Fairyland meet relations or friends lately deceased,
who warn them, as Persephone and
Steenie Steenson were warned, to eat no food
in this place, Fairyland is clearly a memory of
the pre-Christian Hades. There are other elements
in the complex mass of Fairy tradition,
but Chaucer knew “the Fairy Queen Proserpina,”
as Campion calls her, and it is plain
that in very fact “the dread Persephone,” the
“Queen over death and the dead,” had dwindled
into the lady who borrows Tamlane in the
ballad. Indeed Kirk mentions but does not
approve of this explanation, “that those subterranean
people are departed souls.” Now, as
was said, the dead are dwellers under earth.
The worshippers of Chthonian Demeter (Achaia)
beat the earth with wands; so does the Zulu
sorcerer when he appeals to the Ancestors. And
a Macdonald in Moidart, being pressed for his
rent, beat the earth, and cried aloud to his dead
chief, “Simon, hear me; you were always good
to me.”[3]
Thus, to my mind at least, the Subterranean
Inhabitants of Mr. Kirk’s book are not so much
a traditional recollection of a real dwarfish race
living underground (a hypothesis of Sir Walter
Scott’s), as a lingering memory of the Chthonian
beings, “the Ancestors.” A good case in point
is that of Bessie Dunlop, of Dalry, in Ayrshire,
tried on 8th November 1576 for witchcraft.
She dealt in medicine and white
magic, and obtained her prescriptions from
Thomas Reid, slain at Pinkie fight (1547), who
often appeared to her, and tried to lead her
off to Fairyland. She, like Alison Pearson, was
“convict and burnt” (Scott’s Demonology, p.
146, and Pitcairn’s Criminal Trials). Both
ladies knew the Fairy Queen, and Alison Pearson
beheld Maitland of Lethington, and Buccleugh,
in Fairyland, as is recounted in a rhymed satire
on Archbishop Adamson (Dalzell’s Scottish Poems,
p. 321). These are excellent proofs that Fairyland
was a kind of Hades, or home of the dead.
Mr. Kirk, who speaks of the Sleagh Maith as
confidently as if he were discussing the habits
of some remote race which he has visited, credits
them, as the Greek gods were credited, with
the power of nourishing themselves on some fine
essential part of human sacrifice, of human food,
“some fine spirituous Liquors, that peirce like
pure Air and Oil, on the poyson or substance of
Corns and Liquors.” Others, more gross, steal
the actual grain, “as do Crowes and Mice.”
They are heard hammering in the howes: as
Brownies they enter houses and cleanse the
hearths. They are the Domovoys, as the Russians
call them. John Major, in his exposition
of St. Matthew (1518, fol. xlviii.), gives perhaps
the oldest account of Brownies, in a believing
temper. Major styles them Fauni or brobne.
They thrash as much grain in one night as
twenty men could do. They throw stones about
among people sitting by the fire. Whether they
can predict future events is doubtful (see Mr.
Constable in Major’s Greater Britain, p. xxx.
Edinburgh, 1892). To us they seem not much
remote from the Roman Lares—spirits of the
household, of the hearth. In all these creatures
Mr. Kirk recognises “an abstruse People,” who
were before our more substantial race, whose
furrows are still to be seen on the hill-tops.
They never were, to his mind, plain palpable
folk; they are only visible, in their quarterly
flittings, to men of the second sight. That gift
of vision includes not only power to see distant
or future events, but the viewless forms of air.
To shun the flittings, men visit church on the
first Sunday of the quarter: then they will be
hallowed against elf-shots, “these Arrows that
fly in the dark.” As is well known, superstition
explained the Neolithic arrow-heads as Fairy
weapons; it does not follow that a tradition of a
Neolithic people suggested the belief in Fairies.
But we cannot deny absolutely that some such
memory of an earlier race, a shy and fugitive
people who used weapons of stone, may conceivably
play its part in the Fairy legend.
Thence Mr. Kirk glides into that singular
theory of savage metaphysics which somewhat
resembles the Platonic doctrine of Ideas. All
things, in Red Indian belief, have somewhere
their ideal counterpart or “Father.” Thus a
donkey, when first seen, was regarded as “the
Father” or archetype “of Rabbits.” Now the
second-sighted behold the “Double-man,” “Doppel-ganger,”
“Astral Body,” “Wraith,” or what
you will, of a living person, and that is merely
his counterpart in the abstruse world. The
industry of the Psychical Society has collected
much material—evidence, whatever its value, for
the existence of the Double-man. We may call it
a hallucination, which does not greatly increase
our knowledge. From personal experience, and
the experience of friends, I am constrained to
believe that we may think we see a person who
is not really present to the view—who may be
in the next room, or downstairs, or a hundred
miles off. This experience has occurred to the
sane, the unimaginative, the healthy, the free
from superstition, and in circumstances by no
means mystic—for example, when the person
supposed to be seen was not dying, nor distressed,
nor in any but the most normal condition. Indeed,
the cases when there was nothing abnormal
in the state of the person seen are far more
numerous, in my personal knowledge, than those
in which the person seen was dying, or dead, or
excited. The reverse appears to be the rule in
the experience of the Psychical Society. “The
actual proportion of coincidental to non-coincidental
cases, after all deduction for possible
sources of error, was in fact such that the probability
against the supposition of chance coincidence
became enormous, on the assumption of
ordinary accuracy on the part of informants”
(Professor Sidgwick, Proc. S.P.R., vol. viii.
p. 607). Some 17,000 answers were collected.
We must apparently accept these facts as not
very abnormal nor very unusual, and doubtless
as capable of some subjective explanation.
But when such things occurred among
imaginative and uneducated Highlanders, they
became foundations and proofs of the doctrine
of second sight—proofs, too, of the primitive
metaphysical doctrine of counterparts and correspondances.
“They avouch that every Element
and different state of Being have Animals resembling
these of another Element.” By persons
not knowing this, “the Roman invention of
guardian Angels particularly assigned” has been
promulgated. The guardian Angel of the Roman
superstition is merely the Double or Co-walker—the
type (in the viewless world) of the man
in the apparent world. Thus are wraiths and
ghosts explained by our Presbyterian psychologist
and his Highland flock. All things universally
have their types, their reflex: a man’s
type, or reflex, or “co-walker” may be seen at a
distance from or near him during his life—nay,
may be seen after his death. The gifted man of
second sight can tell the substantial figure from
the airy counterpart. Sometimes the reflex
anticipates the action of the reality: “was often
seen of old to enter a House, by which the people
knew that the Person of that Likeness was to
visit them in a few days.” It may have occurred
to most of us to meet a person in the street
whom we took for an acquaintance. It is not
he, but we meet the real man a few paces farther
on. Thus a distinguished officer, at home on
leave, met a friend, as he tells me, in Piccadilly.
The other passed without notice: the officer
hesitated about following him, did not, and in
some fifty yards met his man. There is probably
no more in this than resemblance and
coincidence, but this is the kind of thing which
was worked by the Highlanders into their metaphysics.[4]
The end of the Co-walker is obscure. “This
Copy, Echo, or living Picture goes att last to
his own Herd.” Thus Ghosts are short-lived,
and, according to M. d’Assier on the Manners
of Posthumous Man (L’Homme Posthume),
seldom survive for more than a century. By an
airy being of this kind the Highlanders explained
the false or morbid appetite. A “joint-eater”
inhabited the patient; “he feeds two when he
eats.” As a rule, the Fairies get their food as
witches do—take “the Pith and Milk from
their Neighbours’ Cows unto their own chiese-hold,
throw a Hair-tedder, at a great distance,
by Airt Magic, only drawing a spigot fastened
in a Post, which will bring Milk as farr as a
Bull will be heard to roar.” This is illustrated
in the drinking scene in Faust. This kind of
charge is familiar in trials for witchcraft.
In accordance with the whole metaphysics of
the system of doubles, which are parasites on
humanity, is the superstition of nurses stolen by
Fairies, and of children kidnapped while changelings
are left in their place. The latter accounts
for sudden decline and loss of health by a child;
he is not the original child, but a Fairy brat.
To guard against this, bread (as human food
hateful to Fairies—so the Kanekas carry a boiled
yam about at night), or the Bible, or iron is
placed in the bed of childbirth. “Iron scares
spirits,” as the scholiast says of the drawn sword
of Odysseus in Hades. The Fairy bride, in
Wales, vanishes on being touched with iron.
This belief probably came in when iron was a
new, rare, and mysterious metal. The mortal
nurses in Fairyland are pleasantly illustrated by
the ballad
“I heard a cow lowe,
A bonny, bonny cow lowe,”
in C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe’s Ballad Book.[5] This
part of the superstition is not easy to elucidate.
Kirk repeats the well-known tales of the blinding
of the mortal who saw too clearly “by making
use of their Oyntments.” Well-known examples
occur in Gervase of Tilbury, and are cited in
Scott’s note on Tamlane in the Border Minstrelsy.
As Homer fables of the dead, their
speech is a kind of whistling like the cry of
bats—another indication of the pre-Christian
Hades.[6] They have feasts and burials; and
Pashley, in his Travels in Crete, tells the well-known
Border story of a man who fired on a
Fairy bridal, and heard a voice cry, “Ye have
slain the bonny bridegroom.” It is, of course,
to be noted that the modern Greek superstition
of the Nereids, who carry off mortal girls to
dance with them till they pine away, answers to
some of our Fairy legends, while it will hardly
be maintained that the Nereids are a memory of
pre-historic Finns. “Antic corybantic jollity”
is a note of Nereids, as well as of the Sleagh
Maith. “The Inconvenience of their succubi,”
the Fairy girls who make love to young men, is
well known in the Breton ballad, Le Sieur Nan.
The same superstition is current among the
Kanekas of New Caledonia. My cousin, Mr.
Atkinson, was visited by a young Kaneka, who
twice or thrice returned to take leave of him
with much emotion. When Mr. Atkinson asked
what was the matter, the lad said that he had
just met, as he thought, the girl of his heart
in the forest. After a scene of dalliance she
vanished, and he knew that she was a forest
Fairy, and that he must die in three days,
which he did. This is the “inconvenience of
their succubi,” regretted by Mr. Kirk. Thus it
appears that the mass of these opinions is not
local, nor Celtic merely, but of world-wide
diffusion. Thus Sir Walter Scott observes of the
Afghans and Highlanders, “Their superstitions
are the same, or nearly so. The Gholée Beabacan
(demons of the desert) resemble the Boddach of
the Highlanders, ‘who walked the heath at
midnight and at noon’” (Quarterly Review, xiv.
289). Again, Mr. Kirk says that “Were-wolves
and Witches’ true Bodies are (by the union of
the spirit of Nature that runs thorow all, echoing
and doubling the Blow towards another) wounded
at home, when the astrial or assumed Bodies are
stricken elsewhere.” Thus, if a witch-hare is
shot, the witch’s real body is hurt in the same
part; and Lafitau, in North America, found that
when a Huron shot a witch-bird, the real magician
was stricken in the same place. The theory
that the Fairies appear as “a little rough Dog”
is illustrated by the Welsh Dogs of Hell.
Blackwood’s Magazine for 1818 contains many
examples of these Hell-dogs, which are often
invested in a sheet of fire, as Rink says is the
case among the Eskimo. Take a modern instance.
“Mr. F. A. Paley and friend, walking
home at night on a lonely road, see a large black
dog rise from it, slowly walk to the side, and
disappear. They search in vain. Mr. Paley
hears subsequently that this mysterious dog is
the terror of the neighbourhood, but no such
real dog is known.” Date, summer 1837 (Journ.
of S.P.R., Feb. 1893, p. 31).
The dwellings of these airy shadows of mankind
are, naturally, “Fairie Hills.” There is
such a hill, the Fairy Hill at Aberfoyle, where
Mr. Kirk resided: Baillie Nicol Jarvie describes
its legends in an admirable passage in Rob Roy.
Mr. MacRitchie says, “How much of this ‘howe’
is artificial, or whether any of it is, remains to
be discovered.” It is much larger than most
artificial tumuli. According to Mr. Kirk, the
Highlanders “superstitiously believe the souls
of their Predecessors to dwell” in the fairy-hills.
“And for that end, say they, a Mote or Mount
was dedicate beside every Churchyard, to receive
the souls till their adjacent bodies arise, and so
become as a Fairy hill.” Here the Highland
philosophers have conspicuously put the cart
before the horse. The tumuli are much older
than the churches, which were no doubt built
beside them because the place had a sacred
character. Two very good examples may be
seen at Dalry, on the Ken, in Galloway, and at
Parton, on Loch Ken. The grassy howes are
large and symmetrical, and the modern Presbyterian
churches occupy old sites; at Parton
there are ruins of the ancient Catholic church.
Round the tumulus at Dalry, according to the
local form of the Märchen of Hesione, a great
dragon used to coil in triple folds, before it was
killed by the blacksmith. Nobody, perhaps,
can regard these tumuli, and many like them,
as anything but sepulchral. On the road between
Balantrae, in Ayrshire, and Stranraer, there is a
beautiful tumulus above the sea, which at once
recalls the barrow above the main that Elpenor
in the Odyssey, asked Odysseus to build for him,
“the memorial of a luckless man.” In the
Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, the ghost
of a hero who fell at Troy appears to the adventurers
on a tumulus like this of the Ayrshire
coast. In speaking of these barrows Mr. Kirk
tells how, during a famine about 1676, two
women had a vision of a treasure hid in a fairy-hill.
This they excavated, and discovered some
coins “of good money.” The great gold corslet
of the British Museum is said to have been
found in Wales, where tradition spoke of a ghost
in golden armour which haunted a hillock. The
hillock was excavated, and the golden corslet,
like the Shakespearian bricks, is “alive to
testify” to the truth of the story.
The Fairy belief, we have said, is a composite
thing. On the materials given by tradition,
such as the memory, perhaps, of a pre-historic
race, and by old religion, as in the thoughts
about the pre-Christian Hades, poetry and fancy
have been at work. Consumption, lingering
disease, unexplained disappearances, sudden
deaths, have been accounted for by the agency
of the Fairies, or People of Peace. If the
superstition included no more than this, we
might regard it as a natural result of imagination,
dealing with facts quite natural in the
ordinary course of things. But there are elements
in the belief which cannot be so easily
dismissed. We must ask whether the abnormal
phenomena which have been so frequently discussed,
fought over, forgotten, and revived, do
not enter into the general mass of folk-lore.
They appear most notably in the two branches
of Browniedom—of “Pixies,” as they say in
Devonshire, who haunt the house, and in the
alleged examples of the second sight. The
former topic is the more obscure, if not the
more curious. Let us examine the occurrences,
then, which may have begotten the belief in
Brownies, and in house-haunting Pixies or
Fairies. These appearances may be alleged, on
one hand, to be actual facts in Nature, the
workings of some yet unexplained forces; or
they may merely be the consequences of some
very old traditional method of imposture, vulgar
in itself, but still historical. That form of imposture,
again, may be wrought either by conscious
agents, or unconsciously and automatically
by persons under the influence of somnambulism;
or, finally, the phenomena may in various cases
be due to any one of these three agencies, all of
which may possibly be veræ causæ, as conscious
imposture and trickery is certainly one vera
causa.
In Mr. Kirk’s book we meet “the invisible
Wights which haunt Houses, ... throw great
Stones, Pieces of Earth and Wood at the Inhabitants,”
but “hurt them not at all.” As we
have said, Major (1518) calls these wights
“Fauni or Brobne”—that is, Brownies—and
says that they thrash as much grain in one
night as twenty men could do, and throw
stones about. The legend of their working was
common in Scotland, and a correspondent says
that in Devonshire the belief in Pixies who set
the house in order exists among the grand-parents
of the present generation. But the
sportive is more common than the kindly aspect
of Brownies. Through history we constantly
find them causing objects to move without
visible contact, and “acting in sport, like Buffoons
and Drolls.” In his Letters on Demonology
(p. 377) Scott gives instances where the buffoon
or droll was detected, and confessed that the
rattlings of plates and movements of objects
were caused by an apparatus of threads or horse-hair.
He also quotes the famous doings of
“The Just Devil of Woodstock” in 1649, which
so perplexed and discomfited the Cromwellian
Commissioners. He accounts for those annoyances
by the confessions of Joe Collins of Oxford,
“Funny Joe,” which he quotes from Hone’s
Every-Day Book, while Hone quotes from the
British Magazine of 1747. But the writer in
the British Magazine gives no references or
authorities for the authenticity of Funny Joe’s
confessions, nor even for the existence of Joseph.
Scott could not find his original in the pamphlets
of the British Museum, and some of the statements
attributed to Joe do not tally with the
official account, and other contemporary documents
collected in Sir Walter’s Woodstock. Joe
pretends, for example, to have been secretary to
the Commission under the name of Giles Sharpe;
but in the other accounts the secretary is named
Browne. A Royalist Brownie or Polter-geist
lies under shrewd suspicion, but Joe’s own
existence is unproved, and his alleged evidence
is of no value. However, no sane person can
dream of doubting that many a Brownie has
been as much in flesh and blood as the Brownie
of Bodsbeck in Hogg’s story.
There remain the less easily explicable tales
of strange and humorous disturbances, accompanied
by loud sounds, rappings, the moving of
objects without visible contact, and so forth.[7]
Perhaps we may best examine these by taking
modern instances, collected by the Psychical
Society, in the first place, and then comparing
them with cases recorded at distant times and
in remote places. Some curious common features
will be observed, and the evidence has at least
the value of undesigned coincidence. Glanvil,
Telfair (minister of Rerrick), the Wesleys, Dr.
Adam Clarke, Increase Mather, were not modern
students of psychical research. The modern
Psychical Researchers, we fear, are not students
of old legendary lore, which they dismiss on
evidence not first-hand nor scientifically valid.
Thus they do not seem to be aware that they
are describing, almost in identical terms, phenomena
identical with those noted by Telfair,
Mather, Lavater, and the rest, and by those
ancients attributed to devils. The modern recorders
are not consciously copying from old
accounts; the coincidences therefore have their
value, as proving that certain phenomena have
occurred and recurred. Now those phenomena
may be due to conscious or to hysterical imposture,
but they have been frequent and common
enough to keep alive, and probably to originate,
a part of the Fairy belief—that part which is
concerned with Brownies and house-haunting
Pixies, or Domovoys. These, again, correspond
to the tricky beings described by Mr. Leland in
his Etruscan Remains as survivals of old Roman
and Etruscan popular religions, while we find
similar occurrences in the Empire of the Incas
not long after the Spanish conquest of Peru.[8]
Beginning, then, with what is nearest to us in
time, we take Mr. F. W. H. Myers’s essays “On
the Alleged Movement of Objects without Contact,
occurring not in the Presence of a Paid
Medium.”[9] The alleged phenomena are, of
course, as common as blackberries in the presence
of paid mediums, but are to the last degree
untrustworthy. Even when there is no paid
medium present, the mere contagious excitement
which is said to be developed at séances makes
all that is thought to occur there a story to be
taken with plenty of salt.[10] One of Mr. Myers’s
examples was the result of séances, but it had
features of great importance for the argument.
It will be found in Proc. S. P. R., vol. xix. p. 189,
July 1891. The performers are Mr. C., Mrs.
C., and Mr. H. Mr. C. and Mrs. C. are spoken
of as good witnesses, known to Mr. Myers and
Professor Barrett. Mr. H.’s health has suffered
so much that he cannot be examined, and Mr.
H. is the person who interests us here, for
reasons which will be given later. All three
were “unbelievers” in these matters. On the
second evening “lights floated about the room,”
which was lit, apparently, by a full moon.
“F.” (who is also “H.”) felt cold hands touching,
and “hands” recur in the old pre-scientific
accounts. The three mages were holding hands
tightly at the time. Now Mr. H. had hitherto
been in excellent health, but after his chair was
dragged from under him, and he was “thrown
down on the ground,” he went into “a trance.”
His watch and ring (on the finger of a hand held
by Mrs. C.) were carried to a remote part of
the room. H. leaves the circle and sits at the
window. Another figure walks through the
room. H. returns, is “thrown down,” his coat
is dragged off, and his boots are discovered on a
distant sofa. He asks for “something from
home,” goes into a trance, a photograph locked
up by him at home is found on the table. His
wife, in town, “being quite ignorant of our
having had séances, told us that, at that very
hour, a fearful crash occurred in his bedroom.
The photograph vanished, and returned last
night, when H. was in a trance.” He is “thrown
down” again. He has “alternate fits of unconsciousness
and raving delirium.” The home of
Mr. and Mrs. C. (not the house where they sat)
is vexed by “figures,” noises, knockings; “we
were sprinkled with water in the night,” haunted
by sounds of drums and horns, and so forth.
Before a “manifestation,” “we all felt a sudden
chill, like either a wave of intensely cold air
passing, or a rapid decrease of temperature.”[11]
This is a disgusting story if Mr. H.’s health
was ruined by his presence at the performances.
The point, however, is that he did behave in
epileptic fashion while these events were in
progress. It is natural to suppose that, in his
“trances,” he may have been capable, unconsciously,
of feats physically and morally impossible
to him in his normal condition. This
explanation would not cover all the alleged occurrences,
but would account for many of them.
We now take an ancient instance, similar
disturbances at Newberry, in New England, in
1679, similarly accompanied by the presence of
an epileptic patient.[12] The house of William
Morse was “strangely disquieted by a dæmon.”
The inmates were Morse, his wife, and their
grandson, a boy whose age is not given. The
trouble began on December 3, with a sound of
heavy objects falling on the roof. On December
8, large stones and bricks “were thrown in at
the west end of the house ... the bedstead
was lifted up from the floor, and the bed-staff
flung out of the window, and a cat was hurled
at the wife. A long staff danced up and down
in the chimney. The man’s wife put the staff
in the fire, but she could not hold it there, inasmuch
as it would forcibly fly out; yet after
much ado, with joynt strength, they made it to
burn.... A chair flew about, and at last
lighted on the table, where victuals stood ready
to eat, and was likely to spoil all, only by a
nimble catching they saved some of their meat....
A chest was removed from place to place,
no hand touching it. Two keys would fly
about, making a loud noise by knocking against
each other.... As they lay in bed with their
little boy between them, a great stone from the
floor of the loft was thrown upon the man’s
stomach, and he turning it down upon the floor,
it was once more thrown upon him.” On January
23, 1680, “his ink-horn was taken away
from him while he was writing” (he was keeping
a diary of these events), “and when by all his
seeking he could not find it, at last he saw it
drop out of the air, down by the fire....
February 2, while he and his boy were eating of
cheese, the pieces which he cut were wrested from
them.... But as for the boy, he was a great
sufferer in these afflictions, for on the 18th of
December he, sitting by his grandfather, was
hurried into great motions. The man made him
stand between his legs, but the chair danced
up and down, and was like to have cast both
man and boy into the fire, and the child was
tossed about in such a manner as that they
feared his brains would have been beaten out.”
All these contortions of the boy were apparently
what M. Charcot calls clownisms.[13] When
taken to a doctor’s house the boy “was free of
disturbances,” which returned with his return
home. He barked like a dog, clucked like a hen,
talked nonsense about “Powel,” who pinched
and bullied him. While he was in bed with
the old people, “a pot with its contents was
thrown upon them.” They were clutched by
hands, like Mr. and Mrs. C. Once a voice was
heard singing, “Revenge, revenge is sweet.”
Finally a mate of a ship came, declared that the
grandmother was not rightly suspected as a
witch, and offered, if he were left alone with
the boy, to cure him. “The mate came next
day betimes, and the boy was with him till
night; since which time his house, Morse saith,
has not been molested with evil spirits.” Probably
the mate used a rope’s end: the boy was
more speedily cured than Mr. H.
The phenomena are those of droll or buffooning
wights, as Mr. Kirk says, and no man can
doubt that the boy was at the bottom of the
whole affair. But whether he was capable, when
well and conscious, of such diversions, is another
question. Children like him produced the famous
witch-mania in New England.
We have here, undeniably, a well-recorded
case, analogous to that of Mr. H. In a modern
case of bell-ringing, heavy thumps, and movement
of objects, the agent was “a young girl
who had never been out to service before,”
and who passed the night in a state of wildly
agitated somnambulism, repeating the whole of
the Service for the day.[14] Mather gives several
other examples, in which motives for trickery
are manifest, while we hear nothing of an epileptic
or hysterical patient.
In the majority of instances, ancient or modern,
children are the agents. Thus we have “Physical
Phenomena obtained in a Family Circle,”
that of Mr. and Mrs. Davis, with their children,
at Rio Janeiro.[15] The time was 1888. Curiosity
had been caused by “the notorious Henry Slade.”
There were “touches and grasps of hands.” A
table “ran after me” (Professor Alexander) “and
attempted to hem me in,” when only C., a little
girl, was in the room. “As far as I could see,
she did not even touch the table.” The chair
of Amy (aged thirteen months) was moved about,
like that of Master Morse two hundred years
earlier. A table jumped into the laps of the
public. There were raps and thumps, which
“seemed to shake the whole building.” Lights
floated about. A slate, covered with flour, was
placed on C.’s lap; her hands lay on the table.
Marks of fingers came on the flour, and, in
answer to request, the mark of “a naked baby
foot.” The children present were wearing laced
boots, and we are not told that little Amy was
under the table. Bluish lights and the phantasm
of a dog were seen.
All this answers to an ancient example—the
disturbances in Mr. Wesley’s house at Epworth,
December 1715 to January 1716.[16] The house
was a new one, rebuilt in 1709. We have Mr.
Samuel Wesley’s Journal, with many contemporary
letters from members of the family, and
later reminiscences. There were many lively
girls in the house, and two servants—a maid
and a man, recently engaged. The disturbances
began with groanings; then came knockings,
which flitted about the house. Mr. Wesley
heard nothing till December 21. The knocks
replied to those made by the family, but they
never could imitate the sounds. Mrs. Wesley
and Emily saw an object “like a badger” run
from under a bed and vanish. The mastiff was
much alarmed by the sounds. Mr. Wesley was
“thrice pushed by invisible power.” The bogie
was a Jacobite, as was Mrs. Wesley: Mr. Wesley
was for King George. The knocks were violent
when that usurper was prayed for. They did
not try praying for King James. Robin, the servant,
saw a hand-mill work violently. “Naught
vexed me but that it was empty. I thought,
had it but been full of malt, he might have
ground his heart out for me.” But this was a
jocose, not an industrious devil. Robin called
it “old Jeffries,” after a gentleman lately dead;
the family called it “Jeffrey,” unless one name
is a mere misspelling. It “seemed to sweep
after” Nancy Wesley, when she swept the
chambers. “She thought he might have done
it for her, and saved her the trouble.” Mrs.
Wesley concealed the matter from her husband,
“lest he should fancy it was against his own
death” (Letter of January 12, 1716-17). This
belief in noises foretelling death is very common;
compare Scott’s nocturnal disturbances at Abbotsford
when Bullock, his agent in building it, was
dying in London. The racket occurred on April
28 and 29, 1818, and Scott examined the scene
“with Beardie’s broadsword under my arm.”[17]
Bullock died in Tenterden Street, in London,
whether on April 28 or 29 is not easily to be
ascertained. “The noise resembled half a dozen
men putting up boards and furniture, and nothing
can be more certain than that there was nobody
on the premises at the time.”[18] The noises used
to follow Hetty Wesley, and thump under her
feet, as under those of C. in Professor Alexander’s
narrative. Mr. Wesley’s plate “danced
before him on the table a pretty while, without
anybody’s stirring the table.”[19] The disturbances
quieted down in January, but recurred on March
31. Similar phenomena had occurred “long
before” in the family.[20] “The sound very often
seemed in the air, in the middle of a room,
nor could they ever make any such themselves
by any contrivance.”[21] On February 16, 1740,
twenty-three years later, Emily writes to Jack
about “that wonderful thing called by us Jeffrey.... That
something calls on me against any
extraordinary new affliction.”
Priestley styles this affair “the best-authenticated
that is anywhere extant.” He supposes it
to have been “a trick of the servants, for mere
amusement.” The modus operandi is difficult to
explain. We hear nothing of bad health or
hysterics in the household.[22] For our purpose it
is enough that a few incidents of this kind, however
produced, might originate and keep alive
the belief in Brownies, and
“That shrewd and knavish sprite
Called Robin Goodfellow,”
who
“Frights the maidens of the villagery,
Skims milk, and sometimes labours in the quern.”
By a curious coincidence, we can show a case
in which phenomena of the kind usually reported
as occurring at séances, and in examples like that
of William Morse, were actually accepted as
manifestations of the Sleagh Maith, or Fairies.
In his account of the disturbances in the Wesley
family, Dr. Clarke, the author, averred that he
had himself witnessed similar events. It thus
became necessary to consult his Life (London,
1833). “In the history of my own life,” says
Dr. Clarke, “I have related this matter in sufficient
detail.”[23] Unluckily, in his Life (pp. 76,
77) he gives scarce any details. Previous to
sudden deaths in a family called Church, the
phenomena of falling plates, heavy tread, and
other noises occurred. Mr. Clarke “sat up one
whole night in the kitchen, and most distinctly
heard the above noises.” He was a born mystic,
and even in childhood a reader of Cornelius
Agrippa, and, later, of the alchemists. But he
records the instance of a woman, who solemnly
declared to Mrs. Clarke that a number of the
gentle people (Sleagh Maith) “occasionally frequented
her house; that they often conversed
with her, one of them putting its hands on her
eyes during the time, which hands she represented,
from the sensation she had, to be about
the size of those of a child of four or five years
of age.” The family were “worn down” with
these visits, and from the mention of touches of
hands it is pretty plain that we have to do with
the kind of sprite who paws people at séances.
But these sprites are recognised (the scene is the
North of Ireland) as “gentle people,” Folk of
Peace. The amusing thing is, that Mr. Clarke,
while he believes in Mr. Wesley’s Jeffrey, and
in the supernatural origin of a noise in a kitchen,
laughs at similar phenomena when assigned to
Fairies. It is a mere difference of terminology.
Another old example may be given. It is
Alexander Telfair’s “True Relation” of disturbances
at Ringcroft, in the parish of Rerrick.[24]
The story is attested by the signatures of Ewart,
minister of Kells, in Galloway; Monteith, minister
of Borg; Murdoch, minister of Crosmichael,
on Loch Ken; Spalding, minister at Parton,
also by Loch Ken; Falconer, minister at Keltown;
Mr. M‘Lellan of Colline, Lennox of Milhouse,
and a number of farmers. These were
all neighbours, and all attested what they saw
and heard. Robert Chambers says, “There
never, perhaps, was any mystic history better
attested. Few narrations of the kind have included
occurrences and appearances which it was
more difficult to reconcile with the theory of trick
or imposture.” Mr. Telfair himself had been
chaplain, in 1687, to Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick
of Closeburn. He was then an Episcopalian.
Andrew Mackie was a stone-mason at Rerrick.
On March 7 (1695?), and for long after, stones
began to fly about in his house by night and
day. “The stones which hit any person had
not half their natural weight.” Mackie complained
to Telfair, his minister, who entered the
house and prayed: nothing odd occurred. As
he stood outside, he “saw two little stones drop
down on the croft;” then he was asked to return,
and was pelted inside the cottage. This was
March 11. For a week there was no more
trouble, then the disturbances began again. Mr.
Telfair was sent for, and was pelted, beaten with
a staff, and heard loud knockings. “That night,
as I was at prayer, leaning on a bedside, I felt
something lifting up my arm. I, casting my
eyes thither, perceived a little white hand and
arm from the elbow down, but presently it
evanished.” “There was never anything seen
except that hand I saw,” and an apparition of
a boy in grey clothes. Sometimes the stoning
went on in the open air.[25] There were plenty
of touchings, grippings, and scratchings. “The
door-bar” (a long, heavy piece of squared wood)
“would go thorow the house as if a person were
carrying it in their hand, yet nothing seen doing
it.” Here we compare, in Proc. S. P. R., February
1892, the story of a carpenter’s shop at
Swanland, in Yorkshire, where pieces of wood
were “levitated” into abnormal flight. No imposture
was discovered, nor was the presence of
any one person necessary.
The ministers of Kells and Crosmichael were
pelted with stones of eight pounds weight. On
April 6, fire-balls floated through the cottage.
When five ministers were present, “it made all
the house shake, brake a hole through the
thatch, and poured in great stones.” “It handled
the legs of some as with a man’s hand;” it
hoisted Mr. Telfair, Lennox of Millhouse, and
others off the ground! A sieve flew through
the house; Mackie caught it; a force gripped
it, and pulled the interior part out of the rim.
A day of humiliation was solemnly kept in the
parish, which only excited the emulation of the
disturbing agent; “it continued in a most fearful
manner without intermission.” Voices were
heard, which talked nonsense of a semi-scriptural
kind; finally the thing died out early in May.
By the way, on April 28, “it pulled down the
end of the house, all the stone-work thereof.”
This is a very odd case, as no suspicion is
thrown on the children. The attestations of
several witnesses are given, not only at the close,
but for almost every separate incident. The
vision of the white hand is agreeable.
The Devil of Glen Luce, in Galloway, was
published by Sinclair in his Hydrostaticks, of all
places, in 1672, and again in Satan’s Invisible
World, and by Glanvil in Sadducismus Triumphatus.
In this affair a boy called Thomas, a
son of the unlucky householder, was clearly the
agent. The phenomena were stone-throwing,
beating with sticks, levitation of a plate, and a
great deal of voices, probably uttered by the
aforesaid Thomas. The Synod ordered a day of
humiliation (1655-56).
The affair of the Drummer of Tedworth (1661)
is, or ought to be, too well known for quotation.
The troubles began after Mr. Mompesson seized
the drum of a vagrant musician. In the presence
of a clergyman, chairs walked about the
room of themselves, “a bed-staff was thrown at
the minister, but so favourably that a lock of
wool could not have fallen more softly.” The
children, as usual, were especially haunted. A
jingling of money was common, as it also was at
Epworth. Lights wandered about the house,
“blue and glimmering.” The noise was persistent
in the woodwork of the children’s beds,
while their hands were outside. The knocks
answered knocks made by visitors. There were
divers other marvels. The Drummer was suspected,
but, consciously or not, the children
were probably the agents. They seem to have
been in their usual health.[26] In Galashiels (date
not given), loud knocks on the floor accompanied
a hystero-epileptic girl wherever she sat. In
bed, “her body was so lifted up that many
strong men were not able to keep it down.”
The minister, who could make nothing of her,
was Mr. Wilkie; the girl was Margaret Wilson
(Sinclair, p. 200).
This little parcel of strange stories may suffice
to show that part of the Fairy belief is based on
such incidents as still occur, or are reported to
occur, just in the old fashion. It is for psychologists
and physicians to ascertain how far, if at
all, the incidents are produced by hysterical, or
epileptic, or somnambulistic patients. Common
forthright trickery is usually detected in paid
mediums. But the trickery simulates real
events, or continues an old traditional form of
imposture. The moral that parents should not
allow their children to be present at séances
hardly needs enforcing. Some of them may
escape unharmed, but frightful injuries may be
inflicted on health and on character.[27]
We have already hinted that events of an
ordinary kind—illusions, cases of mistaken identity,
or hallucination—are probably the ground-work
in part of the Highland belief in second
sight. Of course, if a certain proportion of
hallucinations were or could be taken for “veridical,”
attention would be given to these alone:
the others would be neglected. The Psychical
Society has collected and examined hundreds of
these cases in modern life.
The Society may find out, experimentally,
whether second sight can be acquired in the
manner described by Mr. Kirk—whether by
the hair tether, or by merely putting the foot
under that of a seer. Thus contact is used
in thought reading, as, in second sight, the
seer by contact communicates his hallucination.
Second sight itself is now called telepathy,
which, however, does not essentially advance
our knowledge of the subject. It is either very
common, or people who choose to claim the
possession of it are very common. In our
society it is mere matter for idle tales; in
the Highlands the second sight was a belief
and a system. Mr. Pepys and Dr. Johnson
investigated the matter, and Dr. Johnson came
away open to conviction, but unconvinced. The
Psychical Society is now examining second
sight in the Highlands. It is interesting to
learn that the Presbyterian seers justified their
visions out of the Bible, which also justified
the burning of these gifted men on occasion.
Mr. Kirk is tolerant enough to ascribe their
visions to a “bounty of Providence.” This
may have passed, north of the Highland
line, but in Fife and the south the seers would
speedily have been accommodated with a stake
and tar-barrel. The writings of Wodrow and
Mr. Robert Blair of St. Andrews (1650-60)
prove that if a savoury preacher wrought marvels,
he was inspired, but if an amateur did
the very same things,—prophesied, healed
diseases, and so forth,—he, or she, was likely
to be haled before the Presbytery, and possibly
dragged to the stake. In the Highlands these
invidious distinctions were less forcibly drawn.
Mr. Kirk treats the whole question in his
curiously cold scientific way. If these things
occur, they are in the realm of Nature, and are
results of causes which may be variously conjectured.
They may be providential, or a sport
of evolution, derived from “a complexionall
Quality of the first acquirer,” which often
becomes hereditary in his lineage.
Lord Tarbott’s letter to an inquirer, Robert
Boyle, is added by Mr. Kirk to his little
treatise, with his own annotations. His belief
that the Fairy sights could only be seen while
the eyes are kept steady without twinkling, is
attested by a well-known anecdote. On the
afternoon of Culloden, a little girl, staying
with Lord Lovat at Gortuleg, was reading in
a window-seat. Chancing to look out, she saw
a company of headlong riders hastening to the
castle. Believing them to be the Sleagh Maith,
she tried hard to keep her eyes from twinkling,
that she might not lose the vision. But these,
alas! were no Fairies, they were Prince Charles
and his men flying from the victorious English.
The tale proves that the belief long survived
the day of the minister of Aberfoyle. Lord
Tarbott mentions, also, the vision of the shroud
on the breast of a man about to die, which
seems to be alluded to in the prophecy of
Theoclymenus in the Odyssey. Lord Tarbott’s
tales are of the familiar kind, there are dozens
of such in Theophilus Insulanus. Mr. Kirk’s
notes are chiefly remarkable for his citation of
Walter Grahame’s “evil eye,” which killed
what he praised,—a world-wide superstition, too
common to need supporting by foreign and
classical examples.
Unluckily, at this point Mr. Kirk abandons
what we may call his scientific attitude. He
has accounted for his “supernatural” affairs
as not supernatural at all, but phenomena in
Nature, and subject, like other phenomena, to
laws. But now it occurs to him to explain the
conduct of his Sleagh Maith as the result of
missionary zeal on their part: “they endeavour
to convince us of a Deity;” though, on the face
of his argument, a Co-walker no more proves a
Deity than does an ordinary “walker.” He may
have been reading “the learned Dr. Mor” (More
the Platonist), and may have altered his ideas.
His account of a girl who learned, or rather
composed, a long poem by aid of “our nimble
and courteous spirits,” affords an early example
of what is called “an inspirational medium.”
It is unlucky that Mr. Kirk did not publish
this work, of which he had a copy. The ordinary
“spiritual” poetry may be written, as Dr.
Johnson said of Ossian, “by any one who would
abandon his mind to it.” When Mr. Kirk
maintains that Neolithic arrow-heads could not
have been executed “by all the Airt of man,”
he relapses from his usual odd common-sense.
He also believes in men who are magically shot-proof,
like Claverhouse, who had to be shot by a
silver bullet; like Archbishop Sharp, on whom
his pious assassins erroneously held that their
bullets took no effect; and like certain soldiers
mentioned by Dugald Dalgetty of Drumthwacket.
This absurd belief was very generally held by
the Covenanters. Where his local superstitions
and those of his generation are not concerned,
Mr. Kirk recovers his clearness of intellect. In
Purgatory he finds only the pre-Christian Hades,
“our Secret Republick,” with an ecclesiastical
colouring—“additional Fictions of Monks’ doting
and crazied Heads.” Mr. Kirk did not perceive
the danger involved in his own argument. If
a Highland second-sighted man answers to a
Hebrew prophet in his visions and trances, a
Hebrew prophet is in danger of being no more
considered than a Highland second-sighted man.
However, it is to Mr. Kirk’s praise that he shows
no persecuting disposition as far as witches are
concerned (though he has seen them pricked),
and that he argues very fairly from his premisses,
and within his limits.[28] He recognises the unity
of spiritual phenomena and of popular beliefs,
whether it springs from a common well-head of
delusion in our nature, or whether it really has
a source in the observation of peculiar and rather
rare phenomena.
To the Edinburgh edition of 1815 (probably
the only one) the editor added the work of
Theophilus Insulanus on Second Sight. This is
not rare nor expensive, and we do not reproduce
it. One case of “telepathy” may be quoted
from Theophilus.
“Donald Beaton, residenter in Hammir, related
that, in his passage from Glasgow to the
Isle of Sky, he stopped at Tippermory, a known
harbour in the Isle of Mull.” Here some one
gave him a loin of venison. Donald, whose
wife’s mother was a seer, to try her powers,
wished that piece of venison in her hands.
“The same night the seer, who lived with her
daughter, his wife, apprehended she saw him
enter the house with a shapeless lump in his
hands—she knew not what, but it resembled
flesh, which gave herself and her daughter great
joy, as they had despaired of him by his long
absence.” This is “telepathy,” if telepathy
there be.
Another picturesque tale shows how, on the
night before the Rout of Moy, Patrick M‘Caskill
met the famed M‘Rimmon (sic), M‘Leod’s piper,
in the town of Inverness, and saw him contract
into the size of a boy of five or six, and expand
again into his athletic proportions. M‘Rimmon
was killed in the Rout of Moy—an attempt to
surprise and seize Prince Charles. Before leaving
Skye he had prophesied—
“M‘Leod shall come back,
But M‘Rimmon shall never.”
The editor is acquainted with a splendid case
of second sight in Kensington. The seer was
an accomplished English gentleman, and mentioned
his vision at the moment to a witness
who remembers and corroborates the statement.
Thus the Hebrides and Highlands have no
monopoly of second sight.
The researches of M. Charcot, M. Richet, and
other psychologists do not at present help us
much in the matter of veridical second sight.
It is not a hallucination “suggested” to a hypnotised
subject, but an impression produced by
a remote person or event on a subject who has
not been hypnotised at all. For example, Dr.
Adam Clarke, in his Life (vol. ii. p. 16) tells us
of Mr. Tracy Clarke, who, being in the Isle of
Man with his son, dreamed that he had visited
his wife in Liverpool. He told his son that
Mrs. Clarke was looking very well, but, contrary
to her habit, was sleeping in the best bedroom.
On the day when Mr. Clarke said this, Mrs.
Clarke, who had been sleeping in her best bedroom,
told the little son who lay in her room
that she had heard his father ride up to the
house, stable his horse, open the door, come
upstairs, and walk round her bed, but that she
could not see him. This is a case at least of
second hearing, and has no hypnotic explanation.
We end in the candid spirit of Dr. Johnson,
as far as the Polter-Geist and second sight are
concerned—willing to be convinced, but far indeed
from conviction. As to the Fairy belief, we
conceive it to be a complex matter, from which
tradition, with its memory of earth-dwellers, is
not wholly absent, while more is due to a survival
of the pre-Christian Hades, and to the belief
in local spirits—the Vuis of Melanesia, the
Nereids of ancient and modern Greece, the Lares
of Rome, the fateful Mœræ and Hathors—old
imaginings of a world not yet “dispeopled of its
dreams.”[29]