neighbour’s house with this intent. There was only a child of eight years old at
home, but she was thoroughly acquainted with the popular superstition, and
stoutly refused the applicant tinder, match, or lighted stick. When the old woman
had departed, the girl fetched two friends, who straightway followed her home,
to find there a blazing fire and a boiling pot. “See you,” exclaimed the lassie,
“gin the cailliach had gotten the kindling, my father would not get a herring this
year.”
A poor tinker’s wife walked one morning into a house in Applecross—this was
as late as July, 1868—and snatched a live peat from the hearth to kindle her own
fire. Before she had gone any distance, she was observed, and the gudewife sped
after her, overtook her, and snatched away her prize. To a stranger who
remonstrated with her for the unkindness, the gudewife exclaimed, “Do you
think I am to allow my cow to be dried up? If I allowed her to carry away the
fire, I would not have a drop of milk to-night to wet the bairns’ mouths.” And
she flung the peat into a pail of water in order to undo the evil charm so far as
possible.
Allusions to this “non-giving of fire” abound in the old legends, but a single
illustration will suffice. Of old two brother giants, Akin and Rhea, who dwelt on
the Scottish mainland, were wont to pay frequent visits to the Isle of Skye by
leaping across the Straits. They reared for themselves two strong towers in the
Glenelg country, and there they lived in peace and good fellowship, until one
day, the younger brother, returning from one of his excursions, found his hearth
dark and cheerless, and passed on therefore, to his brother’s castle. Stirring the
smouldering fire into a hearty blaze, he warmed himself luxuriously, and then
returned to his own tower, carrying with him a burning peat. Unhappily, at this
moment, his elder brother came in from the chase, and discovering the theft,
broke out into a violent passion. Off sped the culprit, and after him went his
brother, hurling rock after rock in his rage, until he perceived that further pursuit
was useless. The truth of this story is attested by the boulders which to this day
lie strewn all over the valley-side.
A survival of the old Paganism is, undoubtedly, this apprehension of ill-luck
connected with the giving or stealing of fire; and it recalls to us the days when
every mountain-peak was as an altar raised to Baal, and Sun and Moon were
worshipped with solemn mysterious rites. On the great Fire-festival the priests
kindled fire by friction, and the people carried it to their cottages, where it was
kept alive all round the year and extinguished only when a new supply was
ready. “As the purchase of the fire was a source of profit to the priests, it would