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NO one attempting to
describe from personal knowledge the characteristics of Highland life,
can omit some mention of the fools. It must indeed be admitted that the
term "fool" is ambiguous, and embraces individuals in all trades,
professions, and ranks of society. But those I have in my mind were not
so injurious to society, nor so stupid and disagreeable, as the large
class commonly called "fools." Nor is the true type of "fool," a witless
idiot like the Cretin, nor a raving madman, fit only for Bedlam;—but "a
pleasant fellow i' faith, with his brains somewhat in disorder."
I do not know whether "fools" are held in
such high estimation in the Highlands as they used to be in that time
which we call "our day." It may be that the poor laws have banished them
to the calm and soothing retreat of the workhouse; or that the moral and
intellectual education of the people by government pupils and Queen's
scholars have rendered them incapable of being amused by any abnormal
conditions of the intellect; but I am obliged to confess that I have
always had a foolish weakness for "fools"—a decided sympathy with
them—which accounts for their occupying a very fresh and pleasing
portion of my reminiscences of the "parish."
The Highland "fool" was the special property
of the district in which he lived. He was not considered a burthen upon
the community, it was felt to be a privilege to assist him. He wandered
at his own sweet will wherever he pleased, "ower the muir amang the
heather;" along highways and byways, with no let or hindrance from
parish beadles, rural police, or poor-law authorities.
Every one knew the "fool," and liked him as
a sort of prot4b c4 of the public. Every house was open to him, though
he had his favourite places of call. But he was too wise to call as a
fashionable formal visitor, merely to leave his card and depart if his
friend was "not at home." The temporary absence of landlord or landlady
made little difference to him. He came to pay a visit, to enjoy the
society of his friends, and to remain with them for days, perhaps for
weeks, possibly even for months. He was sure to be welcomed, and never
treated uncivilly or sent away until he chose to depart. Nay, he was
often coaxed to prolong the agreeable visit which was intended as a
compliment to the family, and which the family professed to accept as
such. It was, therefore, quite an event when some rare fool arrived,
illustrious for his wit. His appearance was hailed by all in the
establishment, from the shepherds, herds, workmen, and domestic
servants, up to the heads of the family, with their happy boys and
girls. The news spread rapidly from kitchen to drawing-room—" `Callum,'
`Archy,' or' Duncan' fool is come!" and all would gather round him to
draw forth his peculiarities.
It must be remembered that the Highland
kitchen, which was the "fool's" stage, court, reception and levee room,
and which was cheered at night by his brilliant conversation, was like
no other similar culinary establishment, except, perhaps, that in an old
Irish house. The prim model of civilised propriety, with its pure
well-washed floors and whitewashed walls, its glittering pans, burnished
covers, clean tidy fireside with roasting-jack, oven and hot-plate—a
sort of cooking drawing-room, an artistic studio for roasts and
boils—was utterly unknown in the genuine Highland mansion of a former
generation. The Highland kitchen had no doubt, its cooking apparatus,
its enormous pot that hung from its iron chain amidst the reek in the
great chimney; its pans embosomed in glowing peats, and whatever other
instrumentality (possibly an additional peat fire on the floor) was
required to prepare savoury joints, with such barn-door dainties as
ducks and hens, turkeys and geese—all supplied from the farm in such
quantities as would terrify the modern cook and landlady if required to
provide them daily from the market. The cooking of the Highland kitchen
was also a continued process, like that on a passenger steamer on a long
voyage. Different classes had to be served at different periods of the
day, from early dawn till night. There were, therefore, huge pots of
superb potatoes "laughing in their skins," and pots as huge of porridge
poured into immense wooden dishes, with the occasional dinner luxury of
Braxy—a species of mutton which need not be too minutely inquired into.
These supplies were disposed of by the frequenters of the kitchen,
dairymaids and all sorts of maids, with shepherds, farm-servants male
and female, and herd lads full of fun and grimace, and by a constant
supply of strangers, with a beggar and probably a "fool" also at the
side--table. The kitchen was thus a sort of caravanserai, in which
crowds of men and women, accompanied by sheep-dogs and terriers, came
and went; and into whose precincts ducks, hens, and turkeys strayed as
often as they could to pick up debris. The world in the drawing-room was
totaIIy separated from this world in the kitchen, except when invited to
it by the young lady of the family, who in her turn acted as
housekeeper. The "gentry" in " the room" were supposed to look down upon
it as on things belonging to another sphere, governed by its own laws
and customs, with which they had no wish to interfere. And thus it was
that "waifs" and "fools" came to the kitchen and fed there, as a matter
of course, having a bed in the barn at night. All passers-by got their "
bite and sup" in it readily and cheerfully. Servants' wages were
nominal, and food was abundant from moor and loch, sea and land. To do
justice to the establishment I ought to mention that connected with the
kitchen there was generally a room called " the Servants' Hall," where
the more distinguished strangers — such as the post or packman, with
perhaps the tailor or shoemaker when these were necessarily resident for
some weeks in the house—took their meals along with the housekeeper and
more "genteel " servants.
I have, perhaps, given the impression that
these illustrious visitants, the "fools," belonged to that parish merely
in which the houses that they frequented were situated. This was not the
case. The fool was quite a cosmopolitan. He wandered like a wild bird
over a large tract of country, though he had favourite nests and places
of refuge. His selection of these was judiciously made according to the
comparative merits of the treatment which he received from his many
friends. I have known some cases in which the attachment became so great
between the fool and the household that a but was built and furnished
for his permanent use. From this he could wander abroad when he wished a
change of air or society. Many families had their fool—their Wamba or
jester—who made himself not only amusing but useful, by running messages
and doing out-of-the-way jobs requiring little wit but often strength
and time. As far as
my knowledge goes, or my memory serves me, the treatment of these parish
"characters" was most considerate. Any teasing or annoyance which they
received detracted slightly, if at all, from the sum of their happiness,
and was but the friction which elicited their sparks and crackling fun.
The herd boys round the fireside at night could not resist applying it,
nor their elders from enjoying it; while the peculiar claims of the fool
to be considered lord or king, admiral or general, an eight-day clock or
brittle glass, were cheerfully acquiesced in. Few men with all their
wits about them could lead a more free or congenial life than the
Highland fool with his wit alone.
One of the most distinguished fools of my
acquaintance was "Allan-nan-Con," or Allan of the Dogs. He had been
drafted as a soldier, but owing to some breach of millitary etiquette on
his part, when under inspection by Sir Ralph Abercromby, he was
condemned as a fool, and immediately sent home. I must admit that
Allan's subsequent career fully confirmed the correctness of Sir Ralph's
judgment. His peculiarity was his love of dogs. He wore a long loose
greatcoat bound round his waist by a rope. The greatcoat bagged over the
rope, and within its loose and warm recesses a number of pups nestled
while on his journey, so that his waist always seemed to be in motion.
The parent dogs, four or five in number, followed on foot, and always in
a certain order of march, and any straggler or undisciplined cur not
keeping his own place received sharp admonition from Allan's long
pike-staff. His headdress was a large Highland bonnet, beneath which
appeared a small sharp face, with bright eyes and thin-lipped mouth full
of sarcasm and humour. Allan spent his nights often among the hills. "My
house," he used to say, "is where the sun sets." He managed, on retiring
to rest, to arrange his dogs round his body so as to receive the
greatest benefit from their warmth. Their trainaing was the great object
of his life; and his pupils would have astonished any government
inspector by their prompt obedience to their master's commands and their
wonderful knowledge of the Gaelic language.
I remember on one occasion when Allan was
about to leave "the manse," he put his dogs, for my amusement, through
some of their drill, as he called it. They were all sleeping round the
kitchen fire, the pups freed from the girdle, and wandering at liberty,
when Allan said,' "Go out, one of you my children, and let me know if
the day is fair or wet." A dog instantly rose, while the others kept
their places, and with erect tail went out. Returning, it placed itself
by Allan's side, so that he might by passing his hand along its back
discover whether it was wet or dry! "Go," he again said, "and tell that
foolish child" —one of the pups—"who is frolicking outside of the house,
to come in." Another dog rose, departed, and returned wagging his tail
and looking up to Allan's face. "Oh, he won't come, won't he? Then go
and bring him in, and if necessary by force!" The dog again departed,
but this time carried the yelping pup in his mouth, and laid it at
Allan's feet. "Now, my dear children, let us be going," said Allan,
rising, as if to proceed on his journey. But at this moment two terriers
began to fight,--though it seemed a mimic battle,—while an old
sagacious-looking collie never moved from his comfortable place beside
the fire. To understand this scene you must know that Allan had taken
offence at the excellent Sheriff of the district because of his having
refused him some responsible situation on his property, and to revenge
himself he had trained his dogs to act the drama which was now in
progress. Addressing the apparently-sleeping dog, whom he called "the
Sheriff," he said, "There you lie, you lazy dog, enjoying yourself when
the laws are breaking by unseemly disputes and fights ! But what care
you if you get your meat and drink! Shame upon you, Sheriff! It seems
that I even must teach you your duty. Get up this moment, sir, or I
shall bring my staff down on your head, and make these wicked dogs keep
the peace!" In an instant "the Sheriff" rose and separated the
combatants. It was
thus that when any one offended Allan past all possibility of
forgiveness, he immediately trained one cf the dogs to illustrate his
character, and taught it lessons, by which in every house he could turn
his supposed enemy into ridicule. A farmer, irritated by this kind of
dogmatic intolerance, ordered Allan to leave his farm. "Leave it,
forsooth!" replied Allan with a sarcastic sneer. "Could I possibly, sir,
take it with me, be assured I would do so rather than leave it to you!"
When Allan was dying he called his dogs
beside him, and told them to lie close and keep him warm, as the chill
of death was coming over him. He then bade them farewell, as his
"children and best friends," and hoped they would find a master who
would take care of them and teach them as he had -done. The old woman,
in whose hut the poor fool lay, comforted him by telling him how,
according to the humane belief of her country, all whom God had deprived
of reason were sure to go to heaven, and that he would soon be there. "I
don't know very well," said Allan, with his last breath, "where I am
going, as I never travelled far; but if it is possible, I will come back
for my dogs; and, mind you," he added, with emphasis, "to punish the
Sheriff for refusing me that situation!"
Another most entertaining fool was Donald
Cameron. Donald was never more brilliant than when narrating his
submarine voyages, and his adventures, as he walked along the bottom of
the sea passing from island to island. He had an endless variety of
stories about the wrecks which visited in the caverns of the deep, and
above all of his interviews with the fish, small and great, whom he met
during his strange voyages, or journeys, rather. I remember his once
telling me the following with grave earnestness, as we sat together
fishing from a rock: "I was sadly put about, on one occasion, my boy,
when coming from the island of Tyree. Ha! ha! ha! It makes me laugh to
think of it now, though at the time it was very vexing. It was very
stormy weather, and the walking was difficult, and the road long. I
became very hungry at last, and looked out for some hospitable house
where I could find rest and refreshment. I was fortunate enough to meet
a turbot, an old acquaintance, who invited me, most kindly, to a
marriage party, which was that day to be in his family. The marriage was
between a daughter of his own, and a well-to-do flounder. So I went with
the decent fellow, and entered a fine house of shells and tangle, most
beautiful to look upon. The dinner came, and it was all one could wish.
There was plenty, I assure you, to eat and drink, for the turbot had a
large fishing bank almost to himself to ply his trade on, and he was too
experienced to be cheated by the hook of any fisherman. He had also been
very industrious, as indeed were all his family. So he had good means.
But as we sat down to our feast, my mouth watering, and just as I had
the bountiful board under my nose, who should come suddenly upon us with
a rush, but a tremendous cod, that was angry because the turbot's
daughter had accepted a poor, thin, flat flounder, instead of his own
eldest son, a fine red rock cod? The savage, rude brute gave such a
fillip with his tail against the table, that it upset, and what
happened, my dear, but that the turbot, with all the guests, flounders,
skate, haddock, and whiting, thinking, I suppose, that it was a sow of
the ocean, (a whale,) rushed away in a fright; and I can tell you, calf
of my heart, that when I myself saw the cod's big head and mouth and
staring eyes, with his red gills going like a pair of fanners, and when
I got a touch of his tail, I was glad to be off with the rest; so I took
to my heels and escaped among the long tangle. Pfui! what a race of
hide-and-seek that was! Fortunately for me I was near the Point of
Ardnamurchan, where I landed in safety, and got to Donald M'Lachlan's
house wet and weary. Wasn't that an adventure? And now," concluded my
friend, "I'll put on, with your leave, a very large bait of cockles on
my hook, and perhaps I may catch some of that rascally cod's
descendants!"
"Barefooted Lachlan," another parish worthy, was famous as a swimmer.
lie lived for hours in the water, and alarmed more than one boat's crew,
who perceived a mysterious object—it might be the sea-serpent—a mile or
two from the shore, now appearing like a large seal, and again causing
the water to foam with gambols like those of a much larger animal. As
they drew near, they saw with wonder what seemed to be the body of a
human being floating on the surface of the water. With the greatest
caution an oar was slowly moved towards it; but just as the supposed
dead body was touched, the eyes, hitherto shut, in order to keep up the
intended deception, would suddenly open, and with a loud shout and
laugh, Lachlan would attempt to seize the oar, to the terror and
astonishment of those who were ignorant of his fancies. The belief in
his swimming powers—which in truth were wonderful—became so exaggerated
that his friends, even when out of sight of land, would not have been
surprised to have been hailed and boarded by him. If any unusual
appearance was seen on the surface of the water along the coast of the
parish, and rowers paused to consider whether it was a play of fish or a
pursuing whale, it was not unlikely that one of them would at last say,
as affording the most probable solution of the mystery, " I believe
myself it is Barefooted Lachlan !"
Poor Lachlan had become so accustomed to
this kind of fishy existence that he attached no more value to clothes
than a merman does. He looked upon them as a great practical grievance.
To wear them on his aquatic excursions was at once unnecessary and
inconvenient, and to be obliged, despite of tides and winds, to return
from a distant swimming excursion to the spot on the shore, where they
had been left, was to him an intolerable bore. A tattered shirt and kilt
were not worth all this trouble. In adjusting his wardrobe to meet the
demands of the sea, it must be confessed that Lachlan forgot the fair
demands of the land. Society at last rebelled against his judgment, and
the poor-law authorities having been appealed to, were compelled to try
the expensive but necessary experiment of board-in, Lachlan in a pauper
asylum in the Lowlands, rather than permit him to wander about unadorned
as a fish out of water. When he landed at the Broomielaw of Glasgow, and
saw all its brilliant gas lights, and beheld for the first time in his
life a great street with houses which seemed palaces, he whispered with
a smile to his keepers, "Surely this is heaven! am I right?" But when he
passed onward to his asylum, through the railway tunnel with its smoke
and noise, he trembled with horror, declaring that now, alas! he was in
the lower regions and lost for ever. The swimmer did not prosper when
deprived of his long freedom among the winds and waves of ocean, but
died in a few days after entering the well-regulated home provided for
his comfort by law. Had it not been for his primitive taste in clothes,
and his want of appreciation of any better or more complete covering
than hi; tanned skin afforded, I would have protested against his being
confined in a workhouse as a cruel and needless incarceration, and
pleaded for him as Wordsworth did for his Cumberland beggar:-
"As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let hint die!"
While engaged in the unusual task of writing
the biographies of fools, I cannot forget one who, though not belonging
to "the parish," was better known perhaps than any other in the North.
The man I speak of was "Gillespie Aotrom," or "light-headed Archy," of
the Isle of Skye. Archy was perhaps the most famous character of his day
in that island. When I first made his acquaintance a quarter of a
century age, he was eighty years of age, and had been a notorious and
much-admired fool during all that period — from the time, at least, when
he had first babbled folly at his mother's knee. Archy, though a public
beggar, possessed excellent manners. He was welcomed in every house in
Skye and if the landlord had any appreciation of wit, or if he was
afraid of being made the subject of some sarcastic song or witty
epigram, he was sure to ask Archy into the dining-room after dinner, to
enjoy his racy conversation. The fool never on such occasions betrayed
the slightest sense of being patronised, but made his bow, sat down,
accepted with respect, ease, and race his glass of wine or whisky punch,
and was ready to engage in any war of joke or repartee, and1 to sing
some inimitable songs, which hit off with rare cleverness the
infirmities and frailties of the leading people of the island—especially
the clergy. Some of the clergy and gentry happened to be so sensitive to
the power and influence of this fool's wit, which was sure to be
repeated at "kirk and market," that it was alleged they paid him
black-mail in meat and money to keep him quiet, or obtain his favour.
Archy's practical jokes were as remarkable as his sayings. One of these
jokes was the following. An old acquaintance of mine, a minister in
Skye, who possessed the kindest disposition and an irreproachable moral
character, was somehow more afraid of Archy's sharp tongue and witty
rhymes than most of his brethren. Archy seemed to have detected
intuitively his weak point, and though extremely fond of the parson, yet
he often played upon his good-nature with an odd mixture of fun and
selfishness. On the occasion I refer to, Archy in his travels arrived on
a cold night at the manse when all its inmates were snug in bed, and the
parson himself was snoring loudly beside his helpmate. A thundering
knock at the door awakened him, and thrusting his head, enveloped in a
thick white nightcap, out of the window, he at once recognised the tall,
well-known form of Archy. "Is that you, Archy? Oich, oich ! what do you
want, my good friend, at this hour of the night?" blandly asked the old
minister. "What could a man want at such an hour, most reverend friend,"
replied the rogue, with a polite bow, "but his supper and his bed!" "You
shall have both, good Archy," said the parson, at the same time wishing
Archy on the other side of the Coolins. Dressing himself in his
home-made flannel unmentionables, and throwing a shepherd's plaid over
his shoulders, he descended and admitted the fool. He then provided a
sufficient supper for him in the form of a large supply of bread and
cheese, with a jug of milk. During the repast Archy told his most recent
gossip and merriest stories, concluding by a request for a bed. "You
shall have the best in the parish, good Archy, take my word for it!"
quoth the old dumpy and most amiable minister. The bed alluded to was
the hay-loft over the stable, which could be approached by a ladder
only. The minister adjusted the ladder and begged Archy to ascend. Archy
protested against the rudeness. "You call that, do you, one of the best
beds in Skye? You, a minister, say so? On such a cold night as this,
too? You dare to say this to vie?" The old man, all alone, became afraid
of the gaunt fool as he lifted his huge stick with energy. But had any
one. been able to see clearly Archy's face, they would have easily
discovered a malicious twinkle in his eye betraying some plot which he
had been concocting probably all day. "I do declare, Archy," said the
parson, earnestly, "that a softer, cleaner, snugger bed exists not in
Skye!" "I am delighted," said Archy, "to hear it, minister, and must
believe it since you say so. But you know it is the custom in our
country for a landlord to show his guest into his sleeping apartment,
isn't it? and so I expect you to go up before me to my room, and just
see if all is right and comfortable. Please ascend!" Partly from fear
and partly from a wish to get back to his own bed as soon as possible,
and out of the cold of a sharp north wind, the simple-hearted old man
complied with Archy's wish. With difficulty, waddling up the ladder, he
entered the hay-loft. When his white rotund body again appeared as he
formally announced to his distinguished guest how perfectly comfortable
the resting-place provided for him was, the ladder, alas! had been
removed, while Archy calmly remarked, "I am rejoiced to hear what you
say! I don't doubt a word of it. But if it is so very comfortable a
bed-room, you will have no objection, I am sure, to spend the night in
it. Good night, then, my much-respected friend, and may you have as good
a sleep and as pleasant dreams as you wished me to enjoy." So saying he
made a profound bow and departed with the ladder over his shoulder. But
after turning the corner and listening with fits of suppressed laughter
to the minister's loud expostulations and earnest entreaties—for never
had he preached a more energetic sermon, or one more from his heart—and
when the joke afforded the full enjoyment which was anticipated, Archy
returned with the ladder, and advising the parson never to tell fibs
about his fine bed-rooms again. but to give what he had without imposing
upon strangers, he let him descend to the ground, while he himself
ascended to the place of rest in the loft.
Archy's description of the whole scene was
ever afterwards one of his best stories, to the minister's great
annoyance. In some way or other he had been grievously offended by
another of the clergy, on whom he revenged himself by robbing his
hen-roost of a Iarge cock, with splendid yellow feathers and a noble
comb. Archy having carefully cut open and disembowelled the cock,
without injuring its magnificent plumage, formed it into a helmet.
Concealing it under his great-coat, and occupying a prominent seat in
church, immediately opposite the pulpit, he patiently waited, with
becoming gravity, until the minister had reached the climax of his
discourse, and was eloquently addressing the congregation, when,
stooping down, he adjusted his helmet, tying the legs of the cock under
his chin, its tail feathers drooping behind, and the head, with its
glowing comb and appendages, stuck up before; then assuming his former
position, with folded arms, he gazed on the minister, who, it may be
well believed, returned the gaze with awful gravity. While the
congregation joined him in the gaze, their gravity was considerably Iess.
A friend of mine met
Archy on the highway, and, wishing to draw him out, asked his opinion of
several travellers as they passed. The first was a very tall man. Archy
remarked that he had never seen any man before so near heaven! Of
another he said that he had " the sportsman's eye and the soldier's
step," which was singularly true in its description.
A Skye laird who was fond of trying a pass
of arms with Archy, met him one day gnawing a bone. "Shame on you, Archy,"
said the laird, "why do you gnaw a bone in that way?" "And to what use,
sir," asked Archy in reply, "would you have me put it?" "I advise you,"
said the laird, "to throw it in charity to the first dog you meet." "Is
that your advice? then I throw it to yourself!" said Archy, shying the
bone at the laird's feet.
While correcting these sheets, an old woman
from Skye, now in Glasgow, and who knew Archy well, has repeated to me
the words which he never failed to use with reverence as his grace
before meat. They seem to contain some allusion to the sin of the evil
eye, so much feared and hated by the old Highlanders. I translate them
literally: "May my
heart always bless my eyes;
And my eyes bless all they see ;
And may I always bless my neighbour,
Though my neighbours should never bless me. Amen."
By this time I fear that my sedate and wise
readers will conclude that a sympathy with fools comes very naturally to
me. I must bow my head to the implied rebuke. It is, I know, a poor
defence to make for my having indulged, however briefly, in such
biographies, that the literary world has produced many longer ones of
greater fools less innocent of crime, less agreeable, and less
beneficial to society, than those which I have so imperfectly recorded
among my reminiscences of the old Highlands. [Since writing the above, I
have heard of a distinguished general officer who left the Highlands in
his youth, but returned a short time ago to visit his early home, who,
with great seriousness and naivitet, said to my informant, "Will you
believe me when I tell you that among the many things so long associated
with my remembrances, and which I miss much—are —are—pray don't laugh at
me when I confess it—are my old friends the fools!" I heartily
sympathise with the general!]
But lest any one should imagine for a moment
that I treat lightly the sufferings of those deprived of God's highest
gift of reason, let me say that my fools were generally strong and
healthy in body, and in many cases, as I have already hinted, took a
share in farm-work, boating, fishing, &c., and the treatment which they
received was, on the whole, humane and benevolent. At the same time I do
not forget another very different class, far lower in the scale of
humanity, which, owing to many circumstances that need not be detailed
here, was a very large one in the Highlands--I mean, creatures weak in
body and idiotic in mind, who, in spite of the tenderest affection on
the part of their poor parents, were yet miserable objects for which no
adequate relief existed. Such cases indeed occur everywhere throughout
the kingdom to a greater extent, I think, than most people are aware of.
Those idiots are sometimes apparently little removed above the beasts
that perish, yet they nevertheless possess a Divine nature never wholly
extinguished, which is capable of being developed to a degree far beyond
what the most sanguine could anticipate who have not seen what wise,
patient, benevolent, and systematic education is capable of
accomplishing. The coin with the Kinds image on it, though lying in the
dust with the royal stamp almost obliterated, may be again marvellously
cleansed and polished. I therefore hail asylums for idiot children as
among the most blessed fruits of Christian civilisation. Though, strange
to say, they are but commencing among us, yet I believe the day is near
when they will be recognised as among the most needed, the most
successful, and most blessed institutions of our country. |
