Walter’s spirit could not brook this; and disregardful of all consequences, he wheeled about with his face toward him, dragging the weaver round with a jerk, as a mastiff sometimes does a spaniel that is coupled to him; and, as Ingles threw up his foot to kick him on the belly, he followed up his heel with his foot, giving him such a fling upwards as made him whirl round in the air like a reel. He fell on his back, and lay motionless; on which, several of the party of soldiers levelled their muskets at Walter. “Ay, shoot,” said he, setting up his boardly breast to them—“Shoot at me if you dare, the best o’ ye.”
The soldiers cocked their pieces.
“Your Colonel himsel durstna wrang a hair o’ my head, though fain he wad haedone sae, without first gieing me ower to his betters—Let me see if a scullion amang ye a’ dare do mair than he.”
The soldiers turned their eyes, waiting for the word of command; and the weaver kept as far away from Walter as the nature of his bonds would let him. The command of the party now devolved on a Serjeant Douglas; who, perhaps nothing sorry for what had happened, stepped in between the soldiers and prisoner, and swore a great oath, that “what the prisoner said was the truth; and that all that it was their duty to do was, to take the prisoners safe to Edinburgh, as at first ordered; and there give their evidence of this transaction, which would send the lousy whig to hell at once, provided there was any chance of his otherwise escaping.”
They lifted Ingles, and held him up into the air to get breath, loosing meantime his cravat and clothes; on which he fell to vomit severely, owing to the fall he had got, and the great quantity of spirits he haddrunk. They waited on him for about two hours; but as he still continued unable either to speak or walk, they took him into a house called Granton, and proceeded on their destination.
This Douglas, though apparently a superior person to the former commander of the party, was still more intolerant and cruel than he. There was no indignity or inconvenience that he could fasten on his prisoners which he did not exercise to the utmost. They lodged that night at a place called Tweedshaws; and Walter used always to relate an occurrence that took place the next morning, that strongly marked the character of this petty officer, as well as the licensed cruelty of the times.
Some time previous to this, there had been a fellowship meeting, at a place called Tallo–Lins, of the wanderers that lurked about Chapelhope and the adjacent mountains. About eighty had assembled, merely to spend the night in prayer, reading the Scriptures, &c. The curate of Tweedsmuir,a poor dissolute wretch, sent a flaming account of this in writing to the privy council, magnifying that simple affair to a great and dangerous meeting of armed men. The council took the alarm, raised the hue and cry, and offered a reward for the apprehending of any one who had been at the meeting of Tallo–Lins. The curate, learning that a party of the king’s troops was lodged that night in his parish and neighbourhood, came to Tweedshaws at a late hour, and requested to speak with the captain of the party. He then informed Douglas of the meeting, shewed him the council’s letter and proclamation, and finally told him that there was a man in a cottage hard by whom he strongly suspected to have formed one at the meeting alluded to in the proclamation. There being no conveniency for lodging so many people at Tweedshaws, Douglas and the curate drank together all the night, as did the soldiers in another party. A number of friends to the prisoners had given them money whenthey left Dumfries for Edinburgh, to supply as well as they might the privations to which they would be subjected; but here the military took the greater part of it from them to supply their intemperance. About the break of day, they went and surrounded a shepherd’s cottage belonging to the farm of Corehead, having been led thither by the curate, where they found the shepherd an old man, his daughter, and one Edward M’Cane, son to a merchant in Lanarkshire, who was courting this shepherdess, a beautiful young maiden. The curate having got intelligence that a stranger was at that house, immediately suspected him to be one of the wanderers, and on this surmise the information was given. The curate acknowledged the shepherd and his daughter as parishioners, but of M’Cane, he said, he knew nothing, and had no doubt that he was one of the rebellious whigs. They fell to examine the youth, but they were all affected with the liquor they had drunk over night, and made amere farce of it, paying no regard to his answers, or, if they did, it was merely to misconstrue or mock them. He denied having been at the meeting at Tallo–Linns, and all acquaintance with the individuals whom they named as having been there present. Finding that they could make nothing of him whereon to ground a charge, Douglas made them search him for arms; for being somewhat drunk, he took it highly amiss that he should have been brought out of his way for nothing. M’Cane judged himself safe on that score, for he knew that he had neither knife, razor, bodkin, nor edged instrument of any kind about him; but as ill luck would have it, he chanced to have an old gun–flint in his waistcoat pocket. Douglas instantly pronounced this to be sufficient, and ordered him to be shot. M’Cane was speechless for some time with astonishment, and at length told his errand, and the footing on which he stood with the young girl before them, offering at the same time to bring proofs from hisown parish of his loyalty and conformity. He even condescended to kneel to the ruffian, to clasp his knees, and beg and beseech of him to be allowed time for a regular proof; but nothing would move him. He said, the courtship was a very clever excuse, but would not do with him, and forthwith ordered him to be shot. He would not even allow him to sing a psalm with his two friends, but cursed and swore that the devil a psalm he should sing there. He said, “It would not be singing a few verses of a psalm in a wretched and miserable style that would keep him out of hell; and if he went to heaven, he might then lilt as much at psalm–singing as he had a mind.” When the girl, his betrothed sweet–heart, saw the muskets levelled at her lover, she broke through the file, shrieking most piteously, threw herself on him, clasped his neck and kissed him, crying, like one distracted, “O Edward, take me wi’ ye—take me wi’ ye; a’ the warld sanna part us.”
“Ah! Mary,” said he,“last night we looked forward to long and happy years—how joyful were our hopes! but they are all blasted at once. Be comforted, my dearest, dearest heart!—God bless you!—Farewell forever.”
The soldiers then dragged her backward, mocking her with indelicate remarks, and while she was yet scarcely two paces removed, and still stretching out her hands towards him, six balls were lodged in his heart in a moment, and he fell dead at her feet. Deformed and bloody as he was, she pressed the corpse to her bosom, moaning and sobbing in such a way as if every throb would have been her last, and in that condition the soldiers marched merrily off and left them. For this doughty and noble deed, for which Serjeant Douglas deserved to have been hanged and quartered, he shortly after got a cornetcy in Sir Thomas Livingston’s troop of horse.
Two of the prisoners made their escape that morning, owing to the drunkenness of their guards, on which account the remainderbeing blamed, were more haughtily and cruelly treated than ever. It is necessary to mention all these, as they were afterwards canvassed at Walter’s trial, the account of which formed one of his winter evening tales as long as he lived. Indeed, all such diffuse and miscellaneous matter as is contained in this chapter, is a great incumbrance in the right onward progress of a tale; but we have done with it, and shall now haste to the end of our narrative in a direct uninterrupted line.
The sudden departure of Katharine from home, after the extraordinary adventure of the curate Clerk in the Old Room, at the crowing of the cock, was a great relief to him, as it freed him from the embarrassment of her company, and gave him an opportunity of telling his own story to the goodwife without interruption, of the success he had in freeing her daughter from the power and fellowship of evil spirits. That story was fitted admirably to suit her weak and superstitious mind; it accorded with any thing nearer than the truth, and perhaps this finished hypocrite never appeared so great a character in the eyes of Maron Linton as he did that day.He spoke of going away to Henderland in the evening, but she entreated him so earnestly to stay and protect her from the power of the spirits that haunted the place, that he deemed it proper to acquiesce, for without the countenance of the family of Chapelhope he was nothing—he could not have lived in his puny cure. She depended on him, she said, to rid the town of these audacious (or, as she called them,misleared) beings altogether, for without his interference the family would be ruined. Their servants had all left them—the work remained unwrought, and every thing was going to confusion—she had given Brownie his accustomed wages again and again, and still he refused to leave the house; and without the holy man’s assistance in expelling him and his train, their prospects in life were hopeless.
The curate promised to use his highest interest with Heaven, and assured her that no further evil should come nigh unto her, at least while he remained under her roof;“for were it not,” said he, “for the conjunction which they are in with one of the family, they should have been expelled long ere now. That unnatural bond, I hope, by a course of secret conferences, to be able to break asunder, but be not thou afraid, for no evil shall come nigh thy dwelling.” He talked with the goodwife in the style that pleased her; flattered her high and pure notions of religion, as well as her piety and benevolence; said evening prayers in the family with zeal and devotion; but how was he startled when informed that he was to sleep again in the Old Room! He indeed knew not that it was haunted more than any other part of the house, or that it was the favourite nightly resort of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, but the apparition that he had seen, and the unaccountable rescue that he had witnessed the night before, preyed on his mind, and he hinted to the goodwife, that he had expected to be preferred to her daughter’s room and bed that night, as she was absent; but Maron,too, was selfish; for who is without that great ruling motive? She expected that Brownie would appear; that Mass John would speak to it; and thenceforward to be freed from its unwelcome intrusions. To the Old Room he was shown at a late hour, where the lamp, the Bible, and thesand–glasswere placed on the little table, at the bed’s head, as usual.
It was past eleven when the curate went to sleep. Old Nanny, who was dressed more neatly than usual, sat still at the kitchen fire, expecting every minute the two covenant–men, whom her young mistress had promised to send to her privily, as her companions and protectors through the dark and silent watches of the night until her return. Still nothing of them appeared; but, confident that they would appear, she stirred the embers of the fire, and continued to keep watch with patient anxiety. When it drew towards midnight, as she judged, she heard a noise without, as of some people entering, or trying to enter,by the outer door of the Old Room. Concluding that it was her expected companions, and alarmed at the wrong direction they had taken, she ran out, and round the west end of the house, to warn them of their mistake, and bring them in by the kitchen door. As she proceeded, she heard two or three loud and half–stifled howls from the interior of the Old Room. The door was shut, but, perceiving by the seam in the window–shutters that the light within was still burning, she ran to the window, which directly faced the curate’s bed; and there being a small aperture broken in one of the panes, she edged back the shutter, so as to see and hear the most part of what was going on within. She saw four or five figures standing at the bed, resembling human figures in some small degree—their backs towards her; but she saw a half–face of one that held the lamp in its hand, and it was of the hue of a smoked wall. In the midst of them stood the deformed little Brownie, that has often been mentionedand described in the foregoing part of this tale. In his right hand he brandished a weapon, resembling a dirk or carving–knife. The other hand he stretched out, half–raised over the curate’s face, as if to command attention. “Peace!” said he, “thou child of the bottomless pit, and minister of unrighteousness; another such sound from these polluted lips of thine, and I plunge this weapon into thy heart. We would shed thy blood without any reluctance—nay, know thou that we would rejoice to do it, as thereby we would render our master acceptable service. Not for that intent or purpose are we now come; yet thy abominations shall not altogether pass unpunished. Thou knowest thy own heart—its hypocrisy, and licentiousness—Thou knowest, that last night, at this same hour, thou didst attempt, by brutal force, to pollute the purest and most angelic of the human race—we rescued her from thy hellish clutch, for we are her servants, and attend upon her steps. Thou knowest, thatstill thou art cherishing the hope of succeeding in thy cursed scheme. Thou art a stain to thy profession, and a blot upon the cheek of nature, enough to make thy race and thy nation stink in the nose of their Creator!—To what thou deservest, thy doom is a lenient one—but it is fixed and irrevocable!”
There was something in that mis–shapen creature’s voice that chilled Nanny’s very soul while it spoke these words, especially its pronunciation of some of them; it sounded like something she had heard before, perhaps in a dream, but it was horrible, and not to be brooked. The rest now laid violent hold of Mass John, and she heard him mumbling in a supplicating voice, but knew not what he said. As they stooped forward, the lamp shone on the floor, and she saw the appearance of a coffin standing behind them. Nanny was astonished, but not yet overcome; for, cruel were the scenes that she had beheld, and many the trials she had undergone!—butat that instant the deformed and grizly being turned round, as if looking for something that it wanted—the lamp shone full on its face, the lineaments of which when Nanny beheld, her eyes at once were darkened, and she saw no more that night. How she spent the remainder of it, or by what means she got to her bed in the kitchen, she never knew; but next morning when the goodwife and her sons arose, poor old Nanny was lying in the kitchen bed delirious, and talking of dreadful and incomprehensible things. All that could be gathered from her frenzy was, that some terrible catastrophe had happened in the Old Room, and that Clerk, the curate, was implicated in it. The goodwife, judging that her favourite had been at war with the spirits, and that Heaven had been of course triumphant, hasted to the Old Room to bless and pay the honour due to such a divine character; she called his name as she entered, but no one made answer; she hasted to the bed, but behold there wasno one there! The goodwife’s sole spiritual guide had vanished away.
The curate Clerk was never more seen nor heard of in these bounds; but it may not be improper here to relate a circumstance that happened some time thereafter, as it comes no more within the range of this story.
In the month of October, and the memorable year 1688, it is well known that Clavers hasted southward, with all the troops under his command, to assist King James against the Prince of Orange and the protestant party of England, or to sell himself to the latter, any of the ways that he found most convenient. In the course of this march, as he was resting his troops at a place called Ninemile–brae, near the Border, a poor emaciated and forlorn–looking wretch came to him, and desired to speak a word with him. Mr Adam Copland and he were sitting together when this happened; Clavers asked his name and his business, for none of the two recognised him—Itwas Clerk, the curate (that had been) of Chapelhope and Kirkhope! Clavers said, as there were none present save a friend, he might say out his business. This he declined, and took Clavers a short way aside. Copland watched their motions, but could not hear what Clerk said. When he began to tell his story Clavers burst into a violent fit of laughter, but soon restrained himself, and Copland beheld him knitting his brows, and biting his lip, as he seldom failed to do when angry. When they parted, he heard him saying distinctly, “It is impossible that I can avenge your wrongs at this time, for I have matters of great import before me; but the day may come ere long when it will be in my power, and d‑‑n me if I do not do it!”
The spirits of the wild having been victorious, and the reverend curate, the goodwife’s only stay, overcome and carried off bodily, she was impatient, and on the rack every minute that she staid longer about the house. She caused one of her sonstake a horse, and conduct her to Gilmanscleuch that night, to her brother Thomas’s farm, determined no more to see Chapelhope till her husband’s return; and if that should never take place, to bid it adieu for ever.
Nanny went to the led farm of Riskinhope, that being the nearest house to Chapelhope, and just over against it, in order to take what care she was able of the things about the house during the day. There also the two boys remained, and herded throughout the day in a very indifferent manner; and, in short, every thing about the farm was going fast to confusion when Katharine returned from her mission to the Laird of Drummelzier. Thus it was that she found her father’s house deserted, its doors locked up, and its hearth cold.
Her anxiety to converse privately with Nanny was great; but at her first visit, when she went for the key, this was impossible without being overheard. She soon, however, found an opportunity; for that nightshe enticed her into the byre at Chapelhope, in the gloaming, after the kine had left the lone, where a conversation took place between them in effect as follows:
“Alas, Nanny! how has all this happened? Did not the two Covenanters, for whom I sent, come to bear you company?”
“Dear bairn, if they did come I saw nae them. If they came, they were ower late, for the spirits were there afore them; an’ I hae seen sic a sight! Dear, dear bairn, dinna gar me gang owre it again—I hae seen a sight that’s enough to turn the heart o’ flesh to an iceshogle, an’ to freeze up the very springs o’ life!—Dinna gar me gang ower it again, an’ rake up the ashes o’ the honoured dead—But what need I say sae? The dead are up already! Lord in Heaven be my shield and safeguard!”
“Nanny, you affright me; but, be assured, your terrors have originated in some mistake—your sight has deceived you, and all shall yet be explained to your satisfaction.”
“Say nae sae, dear bairn; my sight hasna deceived me, yet I have been deceived. The world has deceived me—hell has deceived me—and heaven has winked at the deed. Alak, an’ wae’s me, that it should sae hae been predestined afore the world began! The day was, an’ no sae lang sin’ syne, when I could hae prayed wi’ confidence, an’ sung wi’ joy; but now my mind is overturned, and I hae nouther stay on earth, nor hope in heaven! The veil of the Temple may be rent below, and the ark of the testimony thrown open above, buttheirforms will not be seen within the one, nor their names found written in the other! We have been counted as sheep for the slaughter; we have been killed all the day long; yet hath the Lord forgotten to be gracious, and is his mercy clean gone for ever!”
“Peace, peace, for Heaven’s sake!—You are verging on blasphemy, and know not what you say.”
“Do the reprobate know what they say, or can they forbear? How then can I? I, who am in the bond of iniquity, and the jaws of death eternal?—Where can I fly? When the righteous are not saved, where shall the ungodly and the sinner appear?—Ay, dear bairn, weel may ye stare and raise up your hands that gate; but when ye hear my tale, ye winna wonder that my poor wits are uprooted. Suppose sic a case your ain—suppose you had been the bosom companion o’ ane for twenty years—had joined wi’ him in devotion, e’ening and morning, for a’ that time, and had never heard a sigh but for sin, nor a complaint but of the iniquities of the land—If ye had witnessed him follow two comely sons, your own flesh and blood, to the scaffold, and bless his God who put it in their hearts to stand and suffer for his cause, and for the crown of martyrdom he had bestowed on them, and bury the mangled bodies of other two with tears, but not with repining—If, after a’ this, he had been hunted as a partridge onthe mountains, and for the same dear cause, the simplicity of the truth as it is in Jesus, had laid down his life—If you knew that his grey head was hung upon the city wall for a spectacle to gaze at, and his trunk buried in the wild by strangers—Say you knew all this, and had all these dear ties in your remembrance, and yet, after long years of hope soon to join their blest society above, to see again that loved and revered form stand before your eyes on earth at midnight, shrivelled, pale, and deformed, and mixed with malevolent spirits on dire and revengeful intent, where wad your hope—where wad your confidence—or where wad your wits hae been flown?” Here she cried bitterly; and seizing the astonished Katharine’s hand with both hers, and pressing it to her brow, she continued her impassioned and frantic strain.—“Pity me, O dear bairn, pity me! For man hasna pitied me, an’ God hasna pitied me! I’m gaun down a floody water, down, down; an’ Iwad fain grip at something, if it were but a swoomin strae, as a last hope, or I sink a’ thegither.”
“These are the words of delirium,” said Katharine, “and I will not set them down as spoke by you. Pray the Almighty that they may never be written in his book of remembrance against you; for the veriest downfallen fiend can do no more than distrust the mercy of God in a Redeemer. I tell you, woman, that whatever you may fancy you have seen or heard in the darkness of night, when imagination forms fantasies of its own, of all those who have stood for our civil and religious liberties, who, for the sake of a good conscience, have yielded up all, and sealed their testimony with their blood, not one hair oftheirheads shall fall to the ground, for their names are written in the book of life, and they shall shine as stars in the kingdom of their Father. You have yourself suffered much, and have rejoiced in your sufferings—So far youdid well—Do not then mar so fair an eternal harvest—so blest a prospect of a happy and everlasting community, by the sin of despair, that can never be forgiven. Can you, for a moment, while in possession of your right senses, doubt of the tender mercies of your Maker and Preserver? Can you for a moment believe that he has hid his face from the tears and the blood that have been shed for his cause in Scotland? As well may you doubt that the earth bears or the sun warms you, or that he never made a revelation of his will to man.”
All the while that Katharine spoke thus, Nanny’s eyes were fixed on her, as if drinking every word she uttered into a soul that thirsted for it. A wild and unstable light beamed on her countenance, but it was still only like a sun–beam breaking through the storm, which is ready to be swallowed up by the rolling darkness within. Her head shook as with a slight paralytic affection, and she again clasped the hand which she had never quitted.
“Are ye an angel o’ light,” said she, in a soft tremulous voice, “that ye gar my heart prinkle sae wi’ a joy that it never thought again to taste? It isna then a strae nor a stibble that I hae grippit at for my last hope, but the tap of a good tow–widdy saugh; an’ a young sapling though it be, it is steevely rootit in a good soil, an’ will maybe help the poor drowning wretch to the shore!—An’haeI thought sae muckle ill o’ you? Could I deem that mild heavenly face, that’s but the reflection o’ the soul within, the image o’ sin and o’ Satan, an’ a veil o’ deceit thrawn ower a mind prone to wickedness? Forgie me, dear, dear saint, forgie me! It surely canna be condemned spirits that ye are connectit wi? Ah, ye’re dumb there!—ye darna answer me to that! Na, na! the spirits o’ the just made perfect wad never leave their abodes o’ felicity to gabble amang derksome fiends at the dead hour o’ the night, in sic a world o’ sin and sorrow as this. But I sawhim, an’ heard him speak, as sure as I see your face an’hear the tones o’ my ain voice; an’, if I lookit nae wrang, there were mae risen frae the dead than ane. It is an awfu’ dispensation to think o’! But there was a spirit o’ retaliation in him that often made me quake, though never sae as now. O wad ye but tell me what kind o’ spirits ye are in conjunction wi’?”
“None but the blest and the happy—None but they who have come out of great tribulation, and washed their robes white in the blood of the Lamb—None that would harbour such a thought, or utter such a doubt, as you have done to–night, for the empire of the universe—More I may not tell you at present; but stay you here with me, and I will cherish you, and introduce you to these spirits, and you shall be happier with them than ever you have been.”
“Will I sae?—Say nae mair!—I wad pit hand to my ain life the night, an’ risk the warst or I again met wi’ them face to face in the same guise as I saw them at midnight last week. Ye’re a wonderfu’ creature!But ye’re ayont my depth; therefore I’ll love ye, an’ fear ye, an’ keep my distance.”
Thus they parted: Katharine into her long vacant house, and Nanny over to Riskinhope. The farmer of Riskinhope (David Bryden of Eldin–hope), was ruined by the sequestration of his stock by Clavers, but the shepherds and other servants still lingered about the house for better or for worse. There was not a sheep on that large farm, save about five scores of good ewes, that Davie Tait, the herd of Whithope, had turned slyly over into the hags of the Yokeburn–head, that day the drivers took away the stock. When Clavers made his last raid up by Chapelhope, all the family of Riskinhope fled to the hills, and betook them to cover, every one by himself; and there, with beating hearts, peeped through the heath and the rash–bush, to watch the motions of that bloody persecutor. Perilous was their case that day, for had any of them been found in that situation,it would have been enough; but Davie well knew it was good for him to keep out of the way, for Mr Renwick, and Mr Shields, as well as other wanderers, had been sheltered in his house many a night, and the latter wrote hisHind let Loosein a small house at the side of Winterhopeburn. Yet Davie was not a Cameronian, properly speaking, nor a very religious man neither; but the religious enthusiasm of his guests had broke him a little into their manner, and way of thinking. He had learned to make family exercise, not however to very great purpose, for the only thing very remarkable in it was the strong nasal Cameronian whine of his prayer, and its pastoral allusions; but he was grown fond of exhibiting in that line, having learned the Martyr’s tune, and the second part of the Dundee, which formed the whole range of his psalmody! Yet Davie liked a joke as well as ever he did, and perhaps as well as any part of divine worship.When one remarked to him that his family music was loud enough, but very discordant,—“Ay,” quoth Davie, “but it’s a lang gate atween here an’ Heaven; a’ music’s good i’ the distance; I hae strong faith in that. I hae some hope i’ Dan’s bass too; it hasgreat effect. I was wantin him to tak some salts an’ sinny leaf to help it a wee.”
That night after Nanny came over, Davie had prayed as usual, and among other things, had not forgot the Brownie of Bodsbeck, that “he might be skelpit wi’ the taws o’ divine wrath, an’ sent back to hell wi’ the sperks on his hips; and that the angel of presence might keep watch over their couches that night, to scare the howlaty face o’ him away, an’ learn him to keep his ain side o’ the water.”
After prayers the family were crowded round the fading ingle, and cracking of the Brownie and of Davie’s prayer. Davie had opened his waistcoat, and thrown offhis hose to warm his feet, and, flattered with their remarks on his abilities, began to be somewhat scurrilous on Brownie. “I think I hae cowed him the night,” said he; “he’ll fash nane o’ us—he may stay wi’ his Keatie Laidlaw yonder, an’ rin at her biddin. He has a sonsy weel–faur’d lass to bide wi’—he’s better aff than some o’ his neighbours, Maysey;” and, saying so, he cast a look to his wife that spoke unutterable things; but finding that his joke did not take, after so serious a prayer, he turned again on Brownie, and, as his own wife said, “didna leave him the likeness of a dog.” He said he had eaten sax bowes o’ good meal to the goodman, an’ a’ that he had done for’t, that ony body kend o’, was mending up an auld fail–dike round the corn ae night. In short, he said he was an unprofitable guest—a dirty droich, an’ a menseless glutton—an’ it was weak an’ silly in ony true Christian to be eiry for him. He had not said out the last words, whenthey heard a whispering at the door, and shortly after these words distinctly uttered:
“There’s neither blood nor rown–tree pin,At open doors the dogs go in.”
“There’s neither blood nor rown–tree pin,At open doors the dogs go in.”
The size of every eye’s orbit was doubled in a moment, as it turned towards the door. The light of the fire was shining bright along the short entry between the beds, and they saw the appearance of a man, clothed in black, come slowly and deliberately in, walk across the entry, and go into the apartment in the other end of the house. The family were all above one another in beyond the fire in an instant, and struggling who to be undermost, and next the wall. Nanny, who was sitting on the form beyond the fire, pondering on other matters, leaning her brow on both hands, and all unconscious of what had entered, was overborne in the crush, and laid flat undermost of all.
“Dear, dear bairns, what’s asteer? Houtfy! Why, troth, ye’ll crush the poor auld body as braid as a blood–kercake.”
“Ah! the Brownie!—the Brownie!—the Brownie o’ Bodsbeck!” was whispered in horror from every tongue.
Davie Tait luckily recollecting that there was a door at hand, that led to a little milk–house in the other end of the house, and still another division farther from Brownie, led the way to it on all four, at full gallop, and took shelter in the farthest corner of that. All the rest were soon above him, but Davie bore the oppressive weight with great fortitude for some time, and without a murmur. Nanny was left last; she kept hold of the Bible that she had in her lap when she fell, and had likewise the precaution to light the lamp before she followed her affrighted associates. Nothing could be more appalling than her own entry after them—never was a figure more calculated to inspire terror, than Nanny coming carrying a feeble glimmering lamp, that only served to make darkness visible, while herpale raised–like features were bent over it, eager to discover her rueful compeers. The lamp was half–covered with her hand to keep it from being blown out; and her face, where only a line of light here and there was visible, was altogether horrible. Having discovered the situation, and the plight of the family, she bolted the door behind her, and advanced slowly up to them. “Dear bairns, what did ye see that has putten ye a’ this gate?”
“Lord sauf us!” cried Davie, from below, “we hae forespoke the Brownie—tak that elbow out o’ my guts a wee bit. They say, if ye speak o’ the deil, he’ll appear. ’Tis an unsonsy and dangerous thing to—Wha’s aught that knee? slack it a little. God guide us, sirs, there’s the weight of a mill–stane on aboon the links o’ my neck. If the Lord hae forsaken us, an’ winna heed our prayers, we may gie up a’ for tint thegither!—Nanny, hae ye boltit the door.”
“Ay hae I, firm an’ fast.”
“Than muve up a wee, sirs, or faith I’mgane—Hech–howe! the weight o’ sin an’ mortality that’s amang ye.”
Davie’s courage, that had begun to mount on hearing that the door was bolted, soon gave way again, when he raised his head, and saw the utter dismay that was painted on each countenance. “Hout, Maysey woman, dinna just mak sic faces—ye are eneuch to fright fock, foreby aught else,” said he to his wife.
“O Davie, think what a wheen poor helpless creatures we are!—Does Brownie ever kill ony body?”
“I wish it be nae a waur thing than Brownie,” said Dan.
“Waur than Brownie? Mercy on us!—Waur than Brownie!—What was it like?” was whispered round.
“Ye mind poor Kirko, the bit Dinscore laird, that skulkit hereabouts sae lang, an’ sleepit several nights ben in that end?—Didna ye a’ think it was unco like him?”
“The very man!—the very man!—hismake, his gang, his claes, an’ every thing,” was echoed by all.
“An’ ye ken,” continued Dan, “that he was shot on Dumfries sands this simmer. It is his ghaist come to haunt the place whar he baid, an’ prayed sae aften.”
“Ower true! Ower true! it’s awsome to think o’,” was the general remark.
“Let us go to prayers,” said Nanny: “it isna a time to creep into nooks on aboon other, an’ gie way to despair. There is but Ane thatcanguard or protect us, let us apply there.”
“Something has been done that way already,” said Davie Tait; “we canna come to handygrips wi’ him, an’ force him to stand senter at our door a’ night.”
Davie’s matter was exhausted on the subject, and he did not much relish going over the same words again, which, he acknowledged, wererather kenspeckle; nor yet to venture on composing new ones out of his own head: this made him disposed to waive Nanny’s proposal.
“Ay,” answered she, “but we mauna haud just wi’ saying gie us this, an’ gie us that; and than, because we dinna just get it aff loof, drap the plea an’ despair. Na, na, dear bairns, that’s nae part o’ the christian warfare! we maun plead wi’ humility, and plead again, an’ never was there mair cause for rousing to exertion than now. The times are momentous, and some great change is drawing near, for the dead are astir—I have seen them mysel’. Yes, the severed members that were scattered, and buried apart, are come thegither again—joined, an’ gaun aboon the grund, mouthing the air o’ Heaven. I saw it mysel—Can it be that the resurrection is begun? It is a far away thought for the thing itsel to be as near; but it’s a glorious ane, an’ there’s proof o’t. But then the place an’ the time are doubtfu’—had it been sun proof I wad hae likit it better. We little wot what to say or think under sic visitations. Let us apply to the only source oflight and direction. David, be you a mouth to us.”
“A mouth?” said Davie; but recollecting himself, added—“Hum, I understand you; but I hae mouthed mair already than has come to ony good. I like fock to pray that hae some chance to be heard; some fock may scraugh themsels hersh, and be nae the better.”
“Oh fie, David! speak wi’ some reverence,” said his wife Maysey.
“I mintit at naething else,” said he, “but I hae an unreverent kind o’ tongue that nought ever serous–like fa’s frae, let my frame o’ mind be as it will; an’ troth I haena command o’ language for a job like this. I trow the prelates hae the best way after a’, for they get prayers ready made to their hands, an’ disna need to affront their Maker wi’ blunders.”
“How can ye speak sae the night, David? or how can sic a thought hover round your heart as to flee out at random thatgate? If ye willreadprayers, there’s a book, read them out o’ that; if the words o’ God winna suit the cases o’ his ain creatures, how can ye trow the words o’ another man can do it? But pray wi’ the heart, an’ pray in humility, and fearna being accepted.”
“That’s true; but yet ane maks but a poor figure wi’ the heart by itsel.”
“Wow, Davie, man,” quoth Maysey, his wife, “an’ ye mak but a poor figure indeed, when we’re a’ in sic a plight! Ye hear the woman speaks gude truth; an’ ye ken yoursel ye fenced us against the Brownie afore, but no against Kirky’s ghaist; tak the beuk like a man, an’ pit the fence o’ scripture faith round us for that too.”
Stupid as Maysey was, she knew the way to her husband’s heart. Davie could not resist such an appeal—he took the Bible; sung the 143d psalm, from beginning to end, at Nanny’s request; and likewise, by her direction, read the 20th of Revelations; then kneeling down on his bare knees, legs,and feet, as he fled from the kitchen, on the damp miry floor of the milk–house, he essayed a strong energetic prayer as a fence against the invading ghost. But as Davie acknowledged, he had an irreverend expression naturally, that no effort could overcome, (and by the bye, there is more in this than mankind are in general aware of,) and the more he aimed at sublimity, the more ludicrous he grew, even to common ears. There is scarcely a boy in the country who cannot recite scraps of Davie Tait’s prayer; but were I to set all that is preserved of it down here, it might be construed as a mockery of that holy ordinance, than which nothing is so far from my heart or intention; but, convinced as I am that a rude exhibition in such a divine solemnity is of all things the most indecent and unbecoming, I think such should be held up to ridicule, as a warning to all Christians never to ask ignorance or absurdity to perform this sacred duty in public. The sublime part of it therefore is given, which wasmeant as a fence against the spirit that had set up his rest so near. To such as are not acquainted with the pastoral terms, the meaning in some parts may be equivocal; to those who are, the train of thinking will be obvious.—It is part of a genuine prayer.
“But the last time we gathered oursels before thee, we left out a wing o’ the hirsel by mistake, an’ thou hast paid us hame i’ our ain coin. Thou wart sae gude than as come to the sheddin thysel, an’ clap our heads, an’ whisper i’ our lugs, ‘dinna be disheartened, my puir bits o’ waefu’ things, for though ye be the shotts o’ my hale fauld, I’ll take care o’ ye, an’ herd ye, an’ gie ye a’ that ye hae askit o’ me the night.’ It was kind, an’ thou hast done it; but we forgot a principal part, an’ maun tell thee now, that we have had another visitor sin’ ye war here, an’ ane wha’s back we wad rather see than his face. Thou kens betterthysel than we can tell thee what place he has made his escape frae; but we sair dread it is frae the boddomless pit, or he wadna hae ta’en possession but leave. Ye ken, that gang tried to keep vilent leasehaud o’ your ain fields, an’ your ain ha’, till ye gae them a killicoup. If he be ane o’ them, O come thysel to our help, an’ bring in thy hand a bolt o’ divine vengeance, het i’ the furnace o’ thy wrath as reed as a nailstring, an’ bizz him an’ scouder him till ye dinna leave him the likeness of a paper izel, until he be glad to creep into the worm–holes o’ the earth, never to see sun or sterns mair. But, if it be some puir dumfoundered soul that has been bumbased and stoundit at the view o’ the lang Hopes an’ the Downfa’s o’ Eternity, comed daundering away frae about the laiggen girds o’ Heaven to the waefu’ gang that he left behind, like a lost sheep that strays frae the rich pastures o’ the south, an’ comes bleating back a’ the gate to its cauld native hills, to the very gair where it was lambed and first followedits minny, ane canna help haeing a fellow–feeling wi’ the puir soul after a’, but yet he’ll find himsel here like a cow in an unco loan. Therefore, O furnish him this night wi’ the wings o’ the wild gainner or the eagle, that he may swoof away back to a better hame than this, for we want nane o’ his company. An’ do thou give to the puir stray thing a weel–hained heff and a beildy lair, that he may nae mair come straggling amang a stock that’s sae unlike himsel, that they’re frightit at the very look o’ him.“Thou hast promised in thy Word to be our shepherd, our guider an’ director; an’ thy word’s as gude as some men’s aith, an’ we’ll haud thee at it. Therefore take thy plaid about thee, thy staff in thy hand, an’ thy dog at thy fit, an’ gather us a’ in frae the cauld windy knowes o’ self–conceit—the plashy bogs an’ mires o’ sensuality, an’ the damp flows o’ worldly–mindedness, an’ wyse us a’ into the true bught o’ life, made o’ the flakes o’ forgiveness and the door o’loving–kindness; an’ never do thou suffer us to be heftit e’ening or morning, but gie lashin’ meals o’ the milk o’ praise, the ream o’ thankfu’ness, an’ the butter o’ good–works. An’ do thou, in thy good time an’ way, smear us ower the hale bouk wi’ the tar o’ adversity, weel mixed up wi’ the meinging of repentance, that we may be kiver’d ower wi’ gude bouzy shake–rough fleeces o’ faith, a’ run out on the hips, an’ as brown as a tod. An’ do thou, moreover, fauld us ower–night, an’ every night, in within the true sheep–fauld o’ thy covenant, weel buggen wi’ the stanes o’ salvation, an’ caped wi’ the divots o’ grace. An’ then wi’ sic a shepherd, an’ sic a sheep–fauld, what hae wi’ to be feared for? Na, na! we’ll fear naething but sin!—We’ll never mair scare at the poolly–woolly o’ the whaup, nor swirl at the gelloch o’ the ern; for if the arm of our Shepherd be about us for good, a’ the imps, an’ a’ the powers o’ darkness, canna wrang a hair o’ our tails.”
“But the last time we gathered oursels before thee, we left out a wing o’ the hirsel by mistake, an’ thou hast paid us hame i’ our ain coin. Thou wart sae gude than as come to the sheddin thysel, an’ clap our heads, an’ whisper i’ our lugs, ‘dinna be disheartened, my puir bits o’ waefu’ things, for though ye be the shotts o’ my hale fauld, I’ll take care o’ ye, an’ herd ye, an’ gie ye a’ that ye hae askit o’ me the night.’ It was kind, an’ thou hast done it; but we forgot a principal part, an’ maun tell thee now, that we have had another visitor sin’ ye war here, an’ ane wha’s back we wad rather see than his face. Thou kens betterthysel than we can tell thee what place he has made his escape frae; but we sair dread it is frae the boddomless pit, or he wadna hae ta’en possession but leave. Ye ken, that gang tried to keep vilent leasehaud o’ your ain fields, an’ your ain ha’, till ye gae them a killicoup. If he be ane o’ them, O come thysel to our help, an’ bring in thy hand a bolt o’ divine vengeance, het i’ the furnace o’ thy wrath as reed as a nailstring, an’ bizz him an’ scouder him till ye dinna leave him the likeness of a paper izel, until he be glad to creep into the worm–holes o’ the earth, never to see sun or sterns mair. But, if it be some puir dumfoundered soul that has been bumbased and stoundit at the view o’ the lang Hopes an’ the Downfa’s o’ Eternity, comed daundering away frae about the laiggen girds o’ Heaven to the waefu’ gang that he left behind, like a lost sheep that strays frae the rich pastures o’ the south, an’ comes bleating back a’ the gate to its cauld native hills, to the very gair where it was lambed and first followedits minny, ane canna help haeing a fellow–feeling wi’ the puir soul after a’, but yet he’ll find himsel here like a cow in an unco loan. Therefore, O furnish him this night wi’ the wings o’ the wild gainner or the eagle, that he may swoof away back to a better hame than this, for we want nane o’ his company. An’ do thou give to the puir stray thing a weel–hained heff and a beildy lair, that he may nae mair come straggling amang a stock that’s sae unlike himsel, that they’re frightit at the very look o’ him.
“Thou hast promised in thy Word to be our shepherd, our guider an’ director; an’ thy word’s as gude as some men’s aith, an’ we’ll haud thee at it. Therefore take thy plaid about thee, thy staff in thy hand, an’ thy dog at thy fit, an’ gather us a’ in frae the cauld windy knowes o’ self–conceit—the plashy bogs an’ mires o’ sensuality, an’ the damp flows o’ worldly–mindedness, an’ wyse us a’ into the true bught o’ life, made o’ the flakes o’ forgiveness and the door o’loving–kindness; an’ never do thou suffer us to be heftit e’ening or morning, but gie lashin’ meals o’ the milk o’ praise, the ream o’ thankfu’ness, an’ the butter o’ good–works. An’ do thou, in thy good time an’ way, smear us ower the hale bouk wi’ the tar o’ adversity, weel mixed up wi’ the meinging of repentance, that we may be kiver’d ower wi’ gude bouzy shake–rough fleeces o’ faith, a’ run out on the hips, an’ as brown as a tod. An’ do thou, moreover, fauld us ower–night, an’ every night, in within the true sheep–fauld o’ thy covenant, weel buggen wi’ the stanes o’ salvation, an’ caped wi’ the divots o’ grace. An’ then wi’ sic a shepherd, an’ sic a sheep–fauld, what hae wi’ to be feared for? Na, na! we’ll fear naething but sin!—We’ll never mair scare at the poolly–woolly o’ the whaup, nor swirl at the gelloch o’ the ern; for if the arm of our Shepherd be about us for good, a’ the imps, an’ a’ the powers o’ darkness, canna wrang a hair o’ our tails.”
All the family arose from their knees with altered looks. Thus fenced, a new energy glowed in every breast. Poor Maysey, proud of her husband’s bold and sublime intercession, and trusting in the divine fence now raised around them, rose with the tear in her eye, seized the lamp, and led the way, followed by all the rest, to retake the apartment of Kirky’s ghost by open assault. Nanny, whose faith wont to be superior to all these things, lagged behind, dreading to see the sight that she had seen on the Saturday night before; and the bold intercessor himself kept her company, on pretence of a sleeping leg; but, in truth, his faith in his own intercession and fence did not mount very high. All the apartment was searched—every chest, corner, and hole that could be thought of—every thing was quiet, and not so much as a mouse stirring!—not a bed–cover folded down, nor the smallest remembered article missing! All the familysaw Kirky’s ghost enter in his own likeness, and heard him speak in his wonted tongue, except old Nanny. It was a great and wonderful victory gained. They were again in full possession of their own house, a right which they never seemed before to have duly appreciated. They felt grateful and happy; and it was hinted by Maysey, Dan, and uncle Nicholas, that Davie Tait would turn out a burning and a shining light in these dark and dismal times, and would supersede Messrs Renwick, Shields, and all the curates in the country. He had laid a visible ghost, that might be the devil for aught they knew to the contrary; and it was argued on all hands, that “Davie was nae sma’ drink.”
The whole of the simple group felt happy and grateful; and they agreed to sit another hour or two before they went to sleep, and each one read a chapter from the Bible, and recite a psalm or hymn. They did so, until it came to Nanny’s turn.