University of Virginia Library

Among the many pretty legends and stories that affix to almost every hill and water, wood and howe of the Garioch, the following is often heard: —Upon a time far, far gone by, a Caledonian demon took a fancy, to amuse himself awhile in the neighbourhood of Benachie—a portion of our world he had scarcely looked upon since the bloody game of Harlaw. To put matters astirring again in his own way, he took a stroll into the woods of Pittodrie. There let him walk, while we take a hasty look at those upon whom he is said to have recommenced his dark doings.

The boasted beauty of five parishes was the “Maiden of Drumdurno.” A farmer's only daughter she—a cantie, clever, hame-bred Scotch lassie. Three notions, in particular, appear to have held uppermost keeping in her bonnie brow—to wit, that her father had the sharpest outlook, Benachie the highest tap, and her ain Jamie, the kindest heart in the whole world.

Aware (and why not?) of her own personal loveliness, she wisely made all within as fair and fitting. She lived a creature full of soul—her breast the tenement of love and happiness—gaiety and tenderness hovered in her eye, like watchful spirits, ready to minister—waiting, as it were, just to see what was wanted—a laugh or a tear. Many, many had wooed—one, at last, had won her. The unsuccessful went, each according to his way, in these cases—some sighing, some drawing comfort from a new purpose, some from an old pipe—all, however, wishing happy days to the betrothed “Maiden of Drumdurno.” One alone—one fed the hope of vengeance—one grim, horse-shoe-hearted rascal of a smith. Parish smith and precentor, too, he was. This rejected ruffian watched that night in Pittodrie woods, in thought that “Jamie” would, as usual, in leaving Drumdurno, pass that way. “Oh, that my eternal destruction could plague their earthly peace,” cried he, “how soon and sure the bargain would be mine!”“Capital wish!” cried the seducer of Eve, “I'll do the thing for you on your own conditions.” Perpetual vassalage on the part of the “red wud” smith— written desolation to the luckless lovers of Drumdurno, was compact and settlement that night, in the black woods of Pittodrie. —The bonniest and the blythest lass within sight of Benachie was drifting up the bridal baking—and the bridal and the bannocks “baith her ain.” “It sets ye weel to work, lass, gin ye had onie mair speed at it.” This compound of taunt and compliment was uttered by a stranger, who had been hanging on about the kitchen, the last hour or so—a queer, rollicking, funny, lump of a “roader,” and, by his own story, in search of work. “I kenna whether it sets me or no,” quoth the maiden, “but I think nane could grudge wi' my speed.” It is clear by this, that the complimentary portion of the stranger's remark had found its way. Alas! the pitiable truth! Alas! for humanity! When it would be flattered, the poison is more surely imparted beneath the roughest coverture. In faulting that which is blameless, the flatterer assumes the hue and weight of honesty, and works securely there.

The jest and banter was exchanged, with mingled glee and earnestness, till at length the lass, all thoughtlessly, was inveigled into the fatal wager. The terms of that fearful agreement are stated at varied points of the horrible. The most temperate reciters insist that HE undertook to “lay” a road from bottom to top of Benachie ere she baked up her firlot of meal. The forfeiture hazarded on his part is not on record. Most likely the light-hearted, happy bride regarded the whole as one of the merry jokes that rang from that merry old man, and heeded not exacting conditions in a matter she conceived to be impossible. Her part of the pledge, however, was, “that she became his own if the road is laid ere the meal be baken.” —Now, now, the last bannock is on the girdle, but for the past hour her mind was filling, in the gush of that tearful sweetness that pours o'er the heart of a willing bride, so the hill, the road, the wager, old man and all—all were forgotten—all overshaded that shared of earth—but one—one only, one darling thought. The hour of tryst was near. The lowering, gloomy-like fall of the night dismayed her, and she looked wistfully at the cloud settling on the hill. “Its nae that, nor mony siclike 'll gar him bide frae me; but I'm wae to see him weet. God of my heart,” she cried, “what's yon I see!” —The road is to be seen to this day. She fled towards the woods of Pittodrie, pursued. The prayer she could not utter was answered. With the last bound the demon grasped a stone. Such the transformed bride. So she stands there even now.