St. Adelbert's curse was a charm against thieves. It
was full of cursing against dishonest persons, and prayers
that they might have their share with Dathan and
Abiram, whom the earth swallowed up, and have their
part with Judas. Thieves were to be cursed in their
houses, fields, and everywhere; they were to be denied
Christian burial; yea, the very ground in which they
rested was to be cursed. Their bodies, in all their separate
parts, and their children, were damned; and as Lucifer
was expelled out of heaven, and Adam and Eve driven
from Paradise, so they were sought to be expelled from[Pg 463]
the light of day. The terrible curse was pronounced with
bell, book, and candle; and concluded with this fearful
denunciation: "And as the candle, which is thrown out
of my hand here, is put out, so let their works and their
souls be quenched in the stench of hell-fire, except they
restore that which they have stolen; and let every one
say, Amen."
Perhaps few are aware that the dark complexion of the
blackamoors is attributed to a curse of Noah; but as
that statement has been disputed, we shall pass it without
further notice.
Irmentrude, a German countess, accused a noble lady
of adultery because she had three children at one birth,
saying that she deserved to be tied up in a sack and
thrown into the sea. Next year the countess herself was
delivered of more sons at a birth than the lady had
brought forth. Touched with remorse for the hard saying
she had uttered against her neighbour, she concluded
it was a just punishment inflicted; but being anxious to
conceal the most extraordinary result, she sent a maid
to drown all the children except one—a son—to heir his
father's estate. Fate so determined that her husband, the
earl, met the young woman as she was going to consign
the young inoffensive infants to a watery grave. On
asking what was in her lap, she answered that she was
going to drown some whelps. The earl being a great
hunter, and consequently fond of dogs, demanded to see
the whelps, that he might judge whether they should be
destroyed. To his astonishment, he found children in
place of young dogs, all living, well-proportioned, and
beautiful, but small. From the maid he learned the
whole truth; whereupon he enjoined her to silence, and
caused the infants to be carried to one of his tenants to
be brought up. When they became of age, they were
sent for to his house, after being dressed like their brother,
who had been cared for by the mother. As soon as the[Pg 464]
countess cast her eyes on her offspring she knew them,
and wept in a state between shame and joy. From those
children descended the family of the Whelphs or Guelphs,
long renowned in Germany.
An interesting legend is current in the north of Scotland,
of a curse being turned into a blessing. It is said
that Lochmore Castle, in the parish of Halkirk and county
of Caithness, was built and inhabited by a person called
Morrar-na-Shean, which signifies, Lord of the Game or
Venison, because he was a great sportsman. He was very
anxious to have a son to inherit his estates, but his hopes
in this respect were blasted by the curse of a wandering
gipsy. It appears that the gipsy was one day near Lochmore
Castle, with a pretty little dark-haired swarthy-complexioned
boy, her son, when she encountered Morrar-na-Shean
in a towering passion—a state of mind in which he
was often to be found. He ordered her and her "beggar
bastard brat" to be off, or he would shoot them. The
woman, instead of running away with her child or imploring
mercy, knelt down and cursed him, and praying at
the same time that he might never have an heir to carry
down his name to posterity. However far the fortunes of
Morrar-na-Shean's family were affected by the gipsy's
curses and prayers, it is impossible to say; but this much
is true, he never had a son. His lady had a daughter, at
which he was greatly disappointed; she had a second
daughter, at which he exhibited marked signs of displeasure;
and in course of time a third daughter was born
to the churlish parent. Disappointed and enraged at not
having a son, he abused the mother and daughters to such
an extent that the unhappy lady, for the sake of peace, and
to save the lives of her children, sent them away privately,
to be brought up by friends. They grew up beautiful and
accomplished young ladies, while at the time their cruel
father thought they were dead. Morrar-na-Shean, after
the lapse of years, despaired of having any children to[Pg 465]
survive him, and therefore gave himself up to grief. In
bitterness of soul, he wished that he had now even one of
the little girls he spurned as if she were not his own flesh
and blood. His lady, finding his mind so much changed,
embraced a favourable opportunity of presenting him with
his three daughters. Immediately, on seeing them, he
was overcome by tender affection, evoked by the charms of
three blooming girls he was privileged to call daughters.
He lived to be grateful that fortune had so willed it that
his estates would not be in the possession of one child, but
would be claimed by three children whom he dearly loved.
The daughters were soon disposed of in marriage—the
eldest to a gentleman named Sinclair, an ancestor of the
well and favourably known Caithness-shire family of that
name; the second to a gentleman named Keith, whose
descendants have long borne an honourable name in Scotland;
and the third, to a nobleman, the scions of whose
house have carved out for themselves niches in the temple
of fame.
"The curse of Moy" was a fearfully realised one. On
the larger of two small islands at Loch Moy (a beautiful
lake, twelve miles from Inverness), may be seen the ruins
of an ancient castle. Centuries ago a noble edifice stood
where those decayed buildings are, occupied by a cruel
chieftain of Clan Chattan. He and his followers had an
encounter with another Highland chieftain and his retainers
from Glenmorriston, when the latter chief, his
fair daughter Margaret, and her lover Allan, the young
heir of Alvie, were taken prisoners, and carried to Castle
Moy. While the captured chieftain and Allan were
immured in the dungeon, Margaret was conveyed to a
feast in the hall, thence she was transferred to an apartment
in the tower, where the chief of Clan Chattan (who,
it should be remarked, was a rejected suitor of Margaret)
tried to induce her to become his bride. To all his
entreaties she turned a deaf ear, preferring to remain true[Pg 466]
to her youthful Allan. She pleaded earnestly for her
father and lover's lives, and, after many entreaties and
tears, succeeded so far as to obtain a promise that only
one of them would die. She was permitted to make
choice of the one she wished liberated, but was warned
that by so doing she sealed the doom of the other
captive.
As might be expected, the lady sank fainting on the
floor, where she lay, more like one dead than alive, until
rude attendants, desirous to please their lord, raised her up
and hurried her into the presence of her father and lover,
for whose sakes she would have willingly laid down her
life if it could have saved theirs. With sobbing and tears,
she made known the resolution of the hard-hearted revengeful
monster, into whose power destiny had placed
them. While the broken-hearted Margaret's eyes were
now fixed on her lover's manly figure, and then on the
bowed form of her aged father, and before she could really
understand the full extent of responsibility that rested on
her, she was embraced by her father, who took her hand
and that of Allan, and joined them together, beseeching
them to live and remember him when he was no more.
He then made Allan swear by the hand of his bride that
he would avenge his death, and so leave no stain on their
honour or names. Girding himself up like a man of
courage, he sent this message to the tyrant chief: "The
Grant of Glenmorriston waits his doom."
Enraged at the turn of events, the chieftain, in violation
of his promise to the maiden, determined that Allan
should not survive to stand between him and the union
of Margaret. Sad forebodings filled her mind during the
succeeding night. Silent and alone she sat until break of
day, when she was aroused by the shrill pibroch, heavy
footsteps, and the clank of arms. A silent prayer went
up for the soul of her parent, who, she rightly judged,
was suffering the last pangs of death. How it was she[Pg 467]
could not tell, but something whispered to her that Allan
too was passing into the land of spirits.
She had not long to wait, though the time seemed to
her like an age, before the chieftain of Moy appeared
before her, and commanded her to come forth to see the
youth of her choice. More dead than alive, she staggered
into the open air, to behold the lifeless forms of both her
father and Allan. In derision, the monster asked what
she thought now of her beardless boy, and said, "That is
the way I tame haughty maids." Again she was conveyed
to her lonely room in the castle tower to spend the
night in solitude, and again the daylight broke in through
the small window of her strongly-guarded prison. She
heeded not the sun, nor the singing of birds as they
warbled their matin songs—no, sorrow lay too heavy near
her heart. None can ever tell the grief she endured in
the dark watches of the lonely night, or when relief came;
but come it did. Nature took its own way of causing
the unhappy lady to forget her sadness of heart—reason
left its seat, and the orphaned Margaret, instead of grieving
over the past, was found singing as sweetly as if she were a
bride in a peaceful bower. Now and again the shrill clear
voice in song ceased, and then she talked (so the attendants
said) to the unseen spirits of those dear to her, whose
bodies were still suspended over the castle gate.
The fierce chieftain approached her again with overtures
of love, offering her his hand, titles, and estates. To
avoid his unholy embrace, she, without waiting to deign
a reply, sprang past him with an agility which appeared
superhuman, and rushed to the ramparts, that were skirted
by the blue waters beneath; then, turning round to the
chief of Clan Chattan, she uttered dreadful maledictions
against him, ending with the prediction that he would
die a bloody death, leaving neither wife nor child behind.
Having said this, she leaped from the giddy height into
the lake below, in whose waves she preferred to take[Pg 468]
refuge rather than yield to the tyrant's solicitations. As
far as can be ascertained, the wicked Macintosh repented
not of his deeds, but continued to conduct himself in a
tyrannical manner to all weaker than himself. At last a
day of reckoning came—the day when Lady Margaret's
curse was to alight upon the head of the murderer of her
father and lover. In the summer of 1378, a short time
after these deeds of darkness happened, the Monroes of
Foulis were returning from a foraying expedition, and
asked permission from the chief of Clan Chattan to pass
through his country for half the booty they had with them.
Macintosh demanded the whole spoil; but, his unreasonable
request being refused, a sanguinary conflict ensued,
in which the Clan Chattan chief was slain. The victorious
Monroes then hastened to the castle of Moy, and put the
whole of the inmates to the sword. Thus perished a
relentless tyrant, leaving no fond wife to mourn his fate,
nor any offspring to carry his name down to posterity.
Thereby was fulfilled the prediction of Lady Margaret,
whose bones still rest at the bottom of Loch Moy.
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