{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_40955/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_40955","id":"gutenberg_40955","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40955","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Henry Flower, junet and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    THE\n    BROWNIE OF BODSBECK;\n    AND\n    OTHER TALES.\n\n    BY\n    JAMES HOGG,\n    AUTHOR OF \"THE QUEEN'S WAKE,\" &c. &c.\n\n    \"What, has this thing appeared again to-night?\"\n\n    IN TWO VOLUMES.\n\n    VOL. I.\n\n    EDINBURGH;\n    PRINTED FOR WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, PRINCE'S-STREET:\n    AND\n    JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET, LONDON.\n\n    1818.\n\n\n\n\n    TO\n    THE RIGHT HONOURABLE\n    LADY ANNE SCOTT,\n    OF BUCCLEUCH.\n\n      To HER, whose bounty oft hath shed\n    Joy round the peasant's lowly bed,\n    When trouble press'd and friends were few,\n    And God and Angels only knew--\n    To HER, who loves the board to cheer,\n    And hearth of simple Cottager;\n    Who loves the tale of rural kind,\n    And wayward visions of his mind,\n    I dedicate, with high delight,\n    The themes of many a winter night.\n\n      What other name on Yarrow's vale\n    Can Shepherd choose to grace his tale?\n    There other living name is none\n    Heard with one feeling,--one alone.\n    Some heavenly charm must name endear\n    That all men love, and all revere!\n    Even the rude boy of rustic form,\n    And robes all fluttering to the storm,\n    Whose roguish lip and graceless eye\n    Inclines to mock the passer by,\n    Walks by the Maid with softer tread,\n    And lowly bends his burly head,\n    Following with eye of milder ray\n    The gentle form that glides away.\n    The little school-nymph, drawing near,\n    Says, with a sly and courteous leer,\n    As plain as eye and manner can,\n    \"Thou lov'st me--bless thee, Lady Anne!\"\n    Even babes catch the beloved theme,\n    And learn to lisp their Lady's name.\n\n      The orphan's blessing rests on thee;\n    Happy thou art, and long shalt be!\n    'Tis not in sorrow, nor distress,\n    Nor Fortune's power, to make thee less.\n    The heart, unaltered in its mood,\n    That joys alone in doing good,\n    And follows in the heavenly road,\n    And steps where once an Angel trode,--\n    The joys within such heart that burn,\n    No loss can quench, nor time o'erturn!\n    The stars may from their orbits bend,\n    The mountains rock, the heavens rend,--\n    The sun's last ember cool and quiver,\n    But these shall glow, and glow for ever!\n\n      Then thou, who lov'st the shepherd's home,\n    And cherishest his lowly dome,\n    O list the mystic lore sublime,\n    Of fairy tales of ancient time.\n    I learned them in the lonely glen,\n    The last abodes of living men;\n    Where never stranger came our way\n    By summer night, or winter day;\n    Where neighbouring hind or cot was none,\n    Our converse was with Heaven alone,\n    With voices through the cloud that sung,\n    And brooding storms that round us hung.\n\n      O Lady, judge, if judge you may,\n    How stern and ample was the sway\n    Of themes like these, when darkness fell,\n    And gray-hair'd sires the tales would tell!\n    When doors were barr'd, and eldron dame\n    Plied at her task beside the flame,\n    That through the smoke and gloom alone\n    On dim and umber'd faces shone--\n    The bleat of mountain goat on high,\n    That from the cliff came quavering by;\n    The echoing rock, the rushing flood,\n    The cataract's swell, the moaning wood,\n    That undefined and mingled hum--\n    Voice of the desart, never dumb!--\n    All these have left within this heart\n    A feeling tongue can ne'er impart;\n    A wilder'd and unearthly flame,\n    A something that's without a name.\n\n      And, Lady, thou wilt never deem\n    Religious tale offensive theme;\n    Our creeds may differ in degree,\n    But small that difference sure can be!\n    As flowers which vary in their dyes,\n    We all shall bloom in Paradise.\n    As sire who loves his children well,\n    The loveliest face he cannot tell,--\n    So 'tis with us. We are the same,\n    One faith, one Father, and one aim.\n\n      And had'st thou lived where I was bred,\n    Amid the scenes where martyrs bled,\n    Their sufferings all to thee endear'd\n    By those most honour'd and revered;\n    And where the wild dark streamlet raves,\n    Had'st wept above their lonely graves,\n    Thou would'st have felt, I know it true,\n    As I have done, and aye must do.\n    And for the same exalted cause,\n    For mankind's right, and nature's laws,\n    The cause of liberty divine,\n    Thy fathers bled as well as mine.\n\n      Then be it thine, O noble Maid,\n    On some still eve these tales to read;\n    And thou wilt read, I know full well,\n    For still thou lovest the haunted dell;\n    To linger by the sainted spring,\n    And trace the ancient fairy ring\n    Where moonlight revels long were held\n    In many a lone sequester'd field,\n    By Yarrow dens and Ettrick shaw,\n    And the green mounds of Carterhaugh.\n\n      O for one kindred heart that thought\n    As minstrel must, and lady ought,\n    That loves like thee the whispering wood,\n    And range of mountain solitude!\n    Think how more wild the greenwood scene,\n    If times were still as they have been;\n    If fairies, at the fall of even,\n    Down from the eye-brow of the heaven,\n    Or some aerial land afar,\n    Came on the beam of rising star;\n    Their lightsome gambols to renew,\n    From the green leaf to quaff the dew,\n    Or dance with such a graceful tread,\n    As scarce to bend the gowan's head!\n\n      Think if thou wert, some evening still,\n    Within thy wood of green Bowhill--\n    Thy native wood!--the forest's pride!\n    Lover or sister by thy side;\n    In converse sweet the hour to improve\n    Of things below and things above,\n    Of an existence scarce begun,\n    And note the stars rise one by one.\n    Just then, the moon and daylight blending,\n    To see the fairy bands descending,\n    Wheeling and shivering as they came,\n    Like glimmering shreds of human frame;\n    Or sailing, 'mid the golden air,\n    In skiffs of yielding gossamer.\n\n      O, I would wander forth alone\n    Where human eye hath never shone,\n    Away o'er continents and isles\n    A thousand and a thousand miles,\n    For one such eve to sit with thee,\n    Their strains to hear and forms to see!\n    Absent the while all fears of harm,\n    Secure in Heaven's protecting arm;\n    To list the songs such beings sung,\n    And hear them speak in human tongue;\n    To see in beauty, perfect, pure,\n    Of human face the miniature,\n    And smile of being free from sin,\n    That had not death impress'd within.\n    Oh, can it ever be forgot\n    What Scotland had, and now has not!\n\n      Such scenes, dear Lady, now no more\n    Are given, or fitted as before,\n    To eye or ear of guilty dust;\n    But when it comes, as come it must,\n    The time when I, from earth set free,\n    Shall turn the spark I fain would be;\n    If there's a land, as grandsires tell,\n    Where Brownies, Elves, and Fairies dwell,\n    There my first visit shall be sped--\n    Journeyer of earth, go hide thy head!\n    Of all thy travelling splendour shorn,\n    Though in thy golden chariot borne!\n    Yon little cloud of many a hue\n    That wanders o'er the solar blue,\n    That curls, and rolls, and fleets away\n    Beyond the very springs of day,--\n    That do I challenge and engage\n    To be my travelling equipage,\n    Then onward, onward, far to steer,\n    The breeze of Heaven my charioteer;\n    The soul's own energy my guide,\n    Eternal hope my all beside.\n    At such a shrine who would not bow!\n    Traveller of earth, where art thou now?\n\n      Then let me for these legends claim,\n    My young, my honour'd Lady's name;\n    That honour is reward complete,\n    Yet I must crave, if not unmeet,\n    One little boon--delightful task\n    For maid to grant, or minstrel ask!\n\n      One day, thou may'st remember well,\n    For short the time since it befel,\n    When o'er thy forest-bowers of oak,\n    The eddying storm in darkness broke;\n    Loud sung the blast adown the dell,\n    And Yarrow lent her treble swell;\n    The mountain's form grew more sublime,\n    Wrapt in its wreaths of rolling rime;\n    And Newark Cairn, in hoary shroud,\n    Appear'd like giant o'er the cloud:\n    The eve fell dark, and grimly scowl'd,\n    Loud and more loud the tempest howl'd;\n    Without was turmoil, waste, and din,\n    The kelpie's cry was in the linn,\n    But all was love and peace within!\n    And aye, between, the melting strain\n    Pour'd from thy woodland harp amain,\n    Which, mixing with the storm around,\n    Gave a wild cadence to the sound.\n\n      That mingled scene, in every part,\n    Hath so impressed thy shepherd's heart,\n    With glowing feelings, kindling bright\n    Some filial visions of delight,\n    That almost border upon pain,\n    And he would hear those strains again.\n    They brought delusions not to last,\n    Blending the future with the past;\n    Dreams of fair stems, in foliage new,\n    Of flowers that spring where others grew\n    Of beauty ne'er to be outdone,\n    And stars that rise when sets the sun;\n    The patriarchal days of yore,\n    The mountain music heard no more,\n    With all the scene before his eyes,\n    A family's and a nation's ties--\n    Bonds which the Heavens alone can rend,\n    With Chief, with Father, and with Friend.\n    No wonder that such scene refin'd\n    Should dwell on rude enthusiast's mind!\n    Strange his reverse!--He little wist--\n    Poor inmate of the cloud and mist!\n    That ever he, as friend, should claim\n    The proudest Caledonian name.\n\n        J. H.\n\n    ELTRIVE LAKE, _April 1st, 1818_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\n\"It will be a bloody night in Gemsop this,\" said Walter of Chapelhope,\nas he sat one evening by the side of his little parlour fire, and wrung\nthe rim of his wet bonnet into the grate. His wife sat by his side,\nairing a pair of clean hosen for her husband, to replace his wet ones.\nShe looked stedfastly in his face, but uttered not a word;--it was one\nof those looks that cannot be described, but it bespoke the height of\ncuriosity, mingled with a kind of indefinite terror. She loved and\nrespected her husband, and sometimes was wont to teaze or cajole him\nfrom his purpose; but one glance of his eye, or scowl of his eyebrow,\nwas a sufficient admonition to her when she ventured to use such\nfreedom.\n\nThe anxious stare that she bent on his face at this time was enquiry\nenough, what he meant by the short and mysterious sentence he had just\nuttered; but from the fulness of his heart he had said that which he\ncould not recal, and had no mind to commit himself farther. His eldest\nson, John, was in the room too, which he had not remarked before he\nspoke, and therefore he took the first opportunity to change the\nsubject. \"Gudewife,\" said he, tartly, \"what are ye sittin glowrin like a\nbendit wulcat there for? Gae away and get me something to eat; I'm like\nto fa' atwae wi' sheer hunger.\"\n\n\"Hunger, father!\" said the lad; \"I'm sure I saw ye take as much meat to\nthe hill with you as might have served six.\"\n\nWalter looked first over the one shoulder at him, and then over the\nother, but, repressing his wrath, he sat silent about the space of two\nminutes, as if he had not heard what the youth said. \"Callant,\" then\nsaid he, with the greatest seeming composure, \"rin away to the hill, an'\nsee after the eild nowt; ca' them up by the Quare Burn, an' bide wi'\nthem till they lie down, gin that sudna be till twal o'clock at\nnight--Gae away when I bid ye--What are ye mumgin at?\" And saying so, he\ngave him such a thwack on the neck and shoulders with the wet bonnet as\nmade him make the best of his way to the door. Whether he drove the\nyoung cattle as far as the Quare Burn, or whether he looked after them\nthat night or not, Walter made no farther enquiry.\n\nHe sat still by his fire wrapt in deep thought, which seemed to increase\nhis uneasy and fretful mood. Maron Linton, (for that was the goodwife of\nChapelhope's name) observing the bad humour of her husband, and knowing\nfor certain that something disagreeable had befallen him, wisely forbore\nall intermeddling or teazing questions respecting the cause. Long\nexperience had taught her the danger of these. She bustled about, and\nset him down the best fare that the house afforded; then, taking up her\ntobacco pipe, she meditated an escape into the kitchen. She judged that\na good hearty meal by himself might somewhat abate his chagrin; and,\nbesides, the ominous words were still ringing in her ears--\"It will be a\nbloody night in Gemsop this\"--and she longed to sound the shepherds that\nwere assembled around the kitchen fire, in order to find out their\nimport. Walter, however, perceiving her drift, stopped her short\nwith--\"Gudewife, whar are ye gaun sae fast--Come back an' sit down here,\nI want to speak t'ye.\"\n\nMaron trembled at the tone in which these words were spoken, but\nnevertheless did as she was desired, and sat down again by the fire.\n\"Weel, Watie, what is't?\" said she, in a low and humble tone.\n\nWalter plied his spoon for some time without deigning any reply; then\nturning full upon her, \"Has Kate been in her bed every night this\nweek?\" asked he seriously.\n\n\"Dear gudeman, whaten a question's that to speer at me--What can hae put\nsic a norie i' your head as that?\"\n\n\"That's no answerin my question, Maron, but speerin ither twa instead\no't--I axt ye gin Kate hadna been out o' her bed for some nights\nbygane.\"\n\n\"How sude I ken ony thing about that, gudeman?--ye may gang an' speer at\nher--Out o' her bed, quotha!--Na--there'll nae young skempy amang them\nwile her out o' her bed i'the night-time.--Dear gudeman, what has put it\ni'your head that our bairn stravaigs i'the night-time?\"\n\n\"Na, na, Maron, there's nae mortal soul will ever gar ye answer to the\npoint.\"\n\n\"Dear gudeman, wha heard ever tell o' a _mortal_ soul?--the soul's no\nmortal at a'--Didna ye hear our ain worthy curate-clerk say\"----\n\n\"O, Maron! Maron! ye'll aye be the auld woman, if the warld sude turn\nupside-down!--Canna ye answer my question simply, ay or no, as far as ye\nken, whether our daughter has been out o' her bed at midnight for some\nnights bygane or no?--If ye ken that she has, canna ye tell me sae at\naince, without ganging about the bush? it's a thing that deeply concerns\nus baith.\"\n\n\"Troth, gudeman, gin she hae been out o' her bed, mony a honest man's\nbairn has been out o' her bed at midnight afore her, an' nae ill in her\nmind nouther--the thing's as common as the rising o' the se'en sterns.\"\n\nWalter turned round towards his meal, after casting a look of pity and\ndespair upon his yokefellow, who went on at great length defending the\nequivocal practice of young women who might deem it meet and convenient\nto leave their beds occasionally by night; for that, without some mode\nof private wooing, it was well known that no man in the country could\npossibly procure a wife, for that darkness rendered a promise serious,\nwhich passed in open day for a mere joke, or words of course; and at\nlength Maron Linton, with more sagacity than usual, concluded her\narguments with the following home remark:--\"Ye ken fu' weel, gudeman, ye\ncourtit me i'the howe o' the night yoursel; an' Him that kens the heart\nkens weel that I hae never had cause to rue our bits o' trysts i'the\ndark--Na, na! mony's the time an' aft that I hae blest them, an' thought\no' them wi' pleasure! We had ae kind o' happiness then, Watie, we hae\nanother now, an' we'll hae another yet.\"\n\nThere was something in this appeal that it would have been unnatural to\nhave resisted. There is a tenderness in the recollection of early scenes\nof mutual joy and love, that invariably softens the asperity of our\nnature, and draws the heart by an invisible bond toward the sharer of\nthese; but when they are at one view connected with the present and the\nfuture, the delight receives a tinge of sublimity. In short, the appeal\nwas one of the most happy that ever fell from the lips of a simple and\nignorant, though a well-meaning woman. It was not lost upon Walter; who,\nthough of a rough exterior and impatient humour, was a good man. He took\nhis wife's hand and squeezed it, while the pupil of his eye expanded\nlike that of a huge mountain ram, when he turns it away from the last\nray of the setting sun.\n\n\"My gude auld wife,\" said he, \"God bless ye!--Ye hae bits o' queer gates\nwhiles, but I wadna part wi' ye, or see ane o' yer grey hairs wranged,\nfor a' the ewes on the Hermon Law.\"--Maron gave two or three sobs, and\nput the corner of her check-apron upon the eye that was next\nWalter.--\"Fair fa' your heart, Maron,\" said he, \"we'll say nae mair\nabout it; but, my woman, we maun crack about our bits o' hame affairs,\nan' I had the strongest reasons for coming to the truth o' yon; however,\nI'll try ither means.--But, Maron Linton, there's anither thing, that in\nspite o' my heart is like to breed me muckle grief, an' trouble, an'\nshame.--Maron, has the Brownie o' Bodsbeck been ony mair seen about the\ntown?\"\n\n\"Troth, gudeman, ye're aye sae hard i' the belief--wi' a' your kindness\nto me and mine, ye hae a dour, stiff, unbowsome kind o' nature in\nye--it'll hardly souple whan steepit i' yer ain e'esight--but I can tell\nye for news, ye'll no hae a servant about yer house, man, woman, nor\nboy, in less than a fortnight, if this wicked and malevolent spirit\ncanna be put away--an' I may say i' the language o' Scripture, 'My name\nis Legion, for we are many.' It's no ae Brownie, nor twa, nor\nhalf-a-score, that's about the house, but a great hantle--they say\nthey're ha'f deils ha'f fock--a thing that I dinna weel understand. But\nhow many bannocks think ye I hae baken in our house these eight days,\nan' no a crust o' them to the fore but that wee bit on your trencher?\"\n\n\"I little wot, gudewife; maybe half-a-dizen o' dizens.\"\n\n\"Half-a-dizen o' dizens, gudeman!--aye sax dizen o' dizens!--a' the meal\ngirnels i' the country wadna stand it, let abee the wee bit meal ark o'\nChapelhope.\"\n\n\"Gudewife, I'm perfectly stoundit. I dinna ken what to say, or what to\nthink, or what to do; an' the mair sae o' what I have heard sin' I gaed\nto the hill--Auld John o' the Muir, our herd, wha I ken wadna tell a lee\nfor the Laird o' Drumelzier's estate, saw an unco sight the night afore\nlast.\"\n\n\"Mercy on us, gudeman! what mair has been seen about the town?\"\n\n\"I'll tell ye, gudewife--on Monanday night he cam yont to stop the ewes\naff the hogg-fence, the wind being eissel--it was a wee after midnight,\nan' the moon wasna just gane down--he was sittin i' the scug o' a bit\ncleuch-brae, when, or ever he wist, his dog Keilder fell a gurrin' an'\ngurrin', as he had seen something that he was terrified for--John took\nhim aneath his plaid, an' held him, thinkin it was some sheep-stealers;\nbut or it was lang he saw a white thing an' a black thing comin' up the\nHoum close thegither; they cam by within three catloups o' him--he\ngrippit his cudgel firm, an' was aince gaun to gie them strength o' arm,\nbut his power failed him, an' a' his sinnens grew like dockans; there\nwas a kind o' glamour cam o'er his een too, for a' the hope an' the\nheaven grew as derk as tar an' pitch--but the settin moon shone even in\ntheir faces, and he saw them as weel as it had been fore-day. The tane\nwas a wee bit hurklin crile of an unearthly thing, as shrinkit an' wan\nas he had lien seven years i' the grave; the tither was like a young\nwoman--an' what d'ye think? he says he'll gang to death wi't that it was\nouther our dochter or her wraith.\"\n\nMaron lifted up her eyes and her clasped hands toward the ceiling, and\nbroke out with the utmost vehemence into the following raving\nejaculation:--\"O mercy, mercy! Watie Laidlaw!--O, may Him that dwalls\natween the Sherubeams be wi' us, and preserve us and guide us, for we\nare undone creatures!--O, Watie Laidlaw, Watie Laidlaw! there's the\nwheel within the wheel, the mystery o' Babylon, the mother of harlots,\nand abominations of the earth----\"\n\n\"Maron Linton!--What are ye sayin?--Haud yer tongue, Maron Linton.\"\n\n\"O gudeman, I thought it was the young fallows ye jaloosed her wi'--I\nwish it had. I wad rather hae seen her i'the black stool, in the place\nwhere repentance is to be hoped for; but now she's i'the deil's ain\nhands. I jaloosed it, Watie--I kend it--I was sure o't lang syne--our\nbairn's changed--she's transplanted--she's no Keaty Laidlaw now, but an\nunearthly creature--we might weel hae kend that flesh an' blude cude\nnever be sae bonny--Goodman, I hae an awsome tale to tell ye--Wha think\nye was it that killed Clavers' Highlanders?\"\n\n\"That, I suppose, will remain a mystery till the day when a' secrets\nwill be cleared up, an' a' the deeds o' darkness brought to light.\"\n\n\"Sae may it be, Watie! Sae may it be! But it was neither ane nor other\nbut our ain only dochter Kate.\"\n\n\"Ye're ravin, Maron--troth, ye're gaun daft--a bit sklendry lassie o'\naughteen kill sae mony armed Highlanders?--Hout fye! keep within bounds,\nMaron.\"\n\n\"I heard her wi' thir lugs it's i'my head--Stannin on that very room\nfloor, I heard her gie the orders to her Brownie. She was greetin whan I\ncam in--I listened and heard her saying, while her heart was like to\nloup, 'Wae's me! O wae's me! or mid-day their blood will be rinning like\nwater!--The auld an' the young, the bonny an' the gude, the sick an' the\nwoundit--That blude may cry to Heaven, but the cauld earth will drink it\nup; days may be better, but waur they canna be! Down wi' the clans,\nBrownie, and spare nae ane.' In less than ten minutes after that, the\nmen were found dead. Now, Watie, this is a plain an' positive truth.\"\n\nWalter's blood curdled within him at this relation. He was\nsuperstitious, but he always affected to disbelieve the existence of the\nBrownie, though the evidences were so strong as not to admit of any\ndoubt; but this double assurance, that his only daughter, whom he loved\nabove all the world besides, was leagued with evil spirits, utterly\nconfounded him. He charged his wife, in the most solemn manner, never\nmore, during her life, to mention the mysterious circumstance relating\nto the death of the Highland soldiers. It is not easy to conceive a pair\nin more consummate astonishment than Walter and his spouse were by the\ntime the conversation had reached this point. The one knew not what to\nthink, to reject, or believe--the other believed all, without\ncomprehending a single iota of that she did believe; her mind\nendeavoured to grasp a dreadful imaginary form, but the dimensions were\ntoo ample for its reasoning powers; they were soon dilated, burst, and\nwere blown about, as it were, in a world of vision and terror.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nBefore proceeding with the incidents as they occurred, which is the\ncommon way of telling a story in the country, it will be necessary to\nexplain some circumstances alluded to in the foregoing chapter.\n\nWalter Laidlaw rented the extensive bounds of Chapelhope from the Laird\nof Drummelzier. He was a substantial, and even a wealthy man, as times\nwent then, for he had a stock of 3000 sheep, cattle, and horses; and\nhad, besides, saved considerable sums of money, which he had lent out to\nneighbouring farmers who were not in circumstances so independent as\nhimself.\n\nHe had one only daughter, his darling, who was adorned with every\naccomplishment which the country could then afford, and with every\ngrace and beauty that a country maiden may possess. He had likewise two\nsons, who were younger than she, and a number of shepherds and female\nservants.\n\nThe time on which the incidents here recorded took place, was, I\nbelieve, in the autumn of the year 1685, the most dismal and troublous\ntime that these districts of the south and west of Scotland ever saw, or\nhave since seen. The persecution for religion then raged in its wildest\nand most unbridled fury: the Covenanters, or the whigs, as they were\nthen called, were proscribed, imprisoned, and at last hunted down like\nwild beasts. Graham, Viscount of Dundee, better known by the detested\nname of Clavers, set loose his savage troopers upon those peaceful\ndistricts, with peremptory orders to plunder, waste, disperse, and\ndestroy the conventiclers, wherever they might be found.\n\nAll the outer parts of the lands of Chapelhope are broken into thousands\nof deep black ruts, called by the country people _moss haggs_. Each of\nthe largest of these has a green stripe along its bottom; and in this\nplace in particular they are so numerous, so intersected and complex in\ntheir lines, that, as a hiding-place, they are unequalled--men, foxes,\nand sheep, may all there find cover with equal safety from being\ndiscovered, and may hide for days and nights without being aware of one\nanother. The neighbouring farms to the westward abound with inaccessible\nrocks, caverns, and ravines. To these mountains, therefore, the\nshattered remains of the fugitives from the field of Bothwell Bridge, as\nwell as the broken and persecuted whigs from all the western and\nsouthern counties, fled as to their last refuge. Being unacquainted,\nhowever, with the inhabitants of the country in which they had taken\nshelter--with their religious principles, or the opinions which they\nheld respecting the measures of government--they durst not trust them\nwith the secret of their retreat. They had watches set, sounds for\nsignals, and skulked away from one hiding-place to another at the\napproach of the armed troop, the careless fowler, or the solitary\nshepherd; yea, such precautions were they obliged to use, that they\noften fled from the face of one another.\n\nFrom the midst of that inhospitable wilderness--from those dark mosses\nand unfrequented caverns--the prayers of the persecuted race nightly\narose to the throne of the Almighty--prayers, as all testified who heard\nthem, fraught with the most simple pathos, as well as the most bold and\nvehement sublimity. In the solemn gloom of the evening, after the last\nrays of day had disappeared, and again in the morning before they began\nto streamer the east, the song of praise was sung to that Being, under\nwhose fatherly chastisement they were patiently suffering. These psalms,\nalways chaunted with ardour and wild melody, and borne on the light\nbreezes of the twilight, were often heard at a great distance. The heart\nof the peasant grew chill, and his hairs stood all on end, as he hasted\nhome to alarm the cottage circle with a tale of horror. Lights were seen\nmoving by night in wilds and caverns where human thing never resided,\nand where the foot of man seldom had trode.\n\nThe shepherds knew, or thought they knew, that no human being frequented\nthese places; and they believed, as well they might, that whole hordes\nof spirits had taken possession of their remote and solitary dells. They\nlived in terror and consternation. Those who had no tie in the country\nleft it, and retreated into the vales, where the habitations of men are\nnumerous, and where the fairy, the brownie, or the walking ghost, is\nrarely seen. Such as had friends whom they could not leave, or sheep and\ncattle upon the lands, as the farmers and shepherds had, were obliged to\nremain, but their astonishment and awe continued to increase. They knew\nthere was but one Being to whom they could apply for protection against\nthese unearthly visitants; family worship was begun both at evening and\nmorning in the farmers' hall and the most remote hamlet; and that age\nintroduced a spirit of devotion into those regions, which one hundred\nand thirty years continuance of the utmost laxity and indecision in\nreligious principles has not yet been able wholly to eradicate.\n\nIt is likewise necessary to mention here, though perfectly well known,\nthat every corner of that distracted country was furnished with a\ngownsman, to instruct the inhabitants in the _mild_ and _benignant_\nprinciples of prelacy, but chiefly to act as spies upon the detested\nwhigs. In the fulfilment of this last task they were not remiss; they\nproved the most inveterate and incorrigible enemies that the poor\ncovenanters had, even though heaven, earth, and hell seemed to have\ncombined against them.\n\nThe officiating priest at the kirk of Saint Mary of the Lowes had been\nparticularly active in this part of his commission. The smallest number\ncould not be convened for the purposes of public devotion--two or three\nstragglers could not be seen crossing the country, but information was\ninstantly sent to Clavers, or some one of his officers; and, at the same\ntime, these devotional meetings were always described to be of the most\natrocious and rebellious nature. The whigs became grievously incensed\nagainst this ecclesiastic, for, in the bleakest mountain of their native\nland, they could not enjoy a lair in common with the foxes and the\nwild-goats in peace, nor worship their God without annoyance in the dens\nand caves of the earth. Their conventicles, though held in places ever\nso remote, were broke in upon and dispersed by armed troops, and their\nministers and brethren carried away to prisons, to banishment, and to\ndeath. They waxed desperate; and what will not desperate men do? They\nway-laid, and seized upon one of the priest's emissaries by night, a\nyoung female, who was running on a message to Grierson of Lag. Overcome\nwith fear at being in custody of such frightful-looking fellows, with\ntheir sallow cheeks and long beards, she confessed the whole, and gave\nup her dispatches. They were of the most aggravated nature. Forthwith\ntwo or three of the most hardy of the whigs, without the concurrence or\nknowledge of their brethren, posted straight to the Virgin's chapel that\nvery night, shot the chaplain, and buried him at a small distance from\nhis own little solitary mansion; at the same time giving out to the\ncountry, that he was a sorcerer, an adulterer, and a character every way\nevil. His name has accordingly been handed down to posterity as a most\nhorrid necromancer.\n\nThis was a rash and unpremeditated act; and, as might well have been\nforeseen, the cure proved worse than the disease. It brought the armed\ntroops upon them both from the east and the west. Dundee came to\nTraquair, and stationed companies of troops in a line across the\ncountry. The Laird of Lag placed a body of men in the narrowest pass of\nMoffatdale, in the only path by which these mountains are accessible.\nThus all communication was cut off between the mountain-men and the\nwestern counties; for every one who went or came by that way, these\nsoldiers took prisoner, searched, and examined; and one lad, who was\ncoming from Moffat, carrying more bread than they thought he could well\naccount for, they shot dead on the spot just as he had dropt on his\nknees to pray.\n\nA curate, named Clerk, still remained, to keep an eye upon the whigs and\npester them. He had the charge of two chapels in that vicinity; the one\nat a place now called Kirkhope, which was dedicated to Saint Irene, a\nsaint of whom the narrator of this story could give no account. The\nother was dedicated to Saint Lawrence; the remains of it are still to be\nseen at Chapelhope, in a small circular inclosure on the west side of\nthe burn. Clerk was as malevolent to the full against the proscribed\nparty as his late brother, but he wanted the abilities of the deceased;\nhe was ignorant, superstitious, and had assumed a part of the fanaticism\nin religion of the adverse party, for it was the age and the country of\nfanaticism, and nothing else would take. By that principally he had\ngained some influence among his hearers, on whom he tried every\nstimulant to influence them against the whigs. The goodwife of\nChapelhope was particularly attached to him and his tenets; he held her\ncompletely in leading-strings; her concience approved of every thing, or\ndisapproved, merely as he directed; he flattered her for her deep\nknowledge in true and sound divinity and the Holy Scriptures, although\nof both she was grossly ignorant. But she had learned from her preceptor\na kind of cant--a jargon of religious terms and sentences of Scripture\nmixed, of which she had great pride but little understanding. She was\njust such a character as would have been a whig, had she ever had an\nopportunity of hearing or conversing with any of that sect. Nothing\nearthly could be so truly ludicrous as some of her exhibitions in a\nreligious style. The family and servants were in general swayed by their\nmistress, who took a decided part with Clerk in all his schemes against\nthe whigs, and constantly dispatched one of her own servants to carry\nhis messages of information to the king's officers. This circumstance\nsoon became known to the mountain-men, and though they were always\nobliged to take refuge on the lands of Chapelhope by day, they avoided\ncarefully all communication with the family or shepherds (for several of\nthe shepherds on that farm lived in cottages at a great distance from\none another and from the farm-house.)\n\nWalter despised Clerk and his tenets most heartily; he saw that he was\na shallow, hypocritical, and selfish being, and that he knew nothing of\nthe principles in which he pretended to instruct them; therefore he\nsorely regretted the influence that he had gained over his family.\nNeither did he approve of the rigid and rebellious principles which he\nbelieved the Covenanters professed. When he met with any man, or\ncommunity of men, who believed firmly in any thing and held it sacred,\nWalter revered that, and held it sacred likewise; but it was rather from\na deference to the belief and feelings of his fellow creatures than his\nown conviction. In short, Walter was an honest, conscientious, good,\nold-fashioned man, but he made no great fuss about religion, and many\nsupposed that he did not care a pin who was right or who was wrong.\n\nOn the 23d of August, Clavers (I think it best to denominate him so, as\nhe is always called by that name in the country,) dispatched nineteen\nmen from Traquair, under the command of one Copland, a gentleman\nvolunteer in his troop, and a very brave young man, to gain intelligence\nconcerning the murder of the curate, and use every means to bring the\nperpetrators to justice. Copland and his men came to the mansion of the\nlate chaplain, where they remained all the night, and made every enquiry\nthat they could concerning the murderers. Several witnesses were brought\nin and examined, and among others the very identical girl whom the whigs\ntook prisoner, and robbed of the dispatches. She had heard the letter\nread by one of the gang who seized her, while the rest stood and\nlistened. It bore, \"that great numbers of the broken and rebellious\ntraitors kenneled in the wilds around Loch-Skene, from whence they\ncommitted depredations on all the countries about; that they likewise\nmade religious incursions into those districts, where great multitudes\nattended their inflammatory harangues.\" It also stated, \"that a noted\nincendiary was to preach on such a day in Kirkinhope Linn, where the\nwhole group might easily be surrounded and annihilated; that many of\nthem were armed with guns, bludgeons, and broadswords, but that they\nwere the most cowardly, heartless dogs alive; and that he himself, who\nhad private and certain information of all their hiding places, would\nengage to rid the country of them in a few days, if Lag would allow him\nbut one company of soldiers.\"\n\nCopland now began to suspect that his force was too small to accomplish\nany thing of moment; he determined, however, to make a dash into the\nwild next morning, and, if possible, to seize some prisoners, and\nthereby gain more accurate information. On the morning of the 24th,\nhaving procured two trusty guides, he proceeded on his expedition. He\nand nine of his followers went up by a place called Sheilhope, the other\nnine by Chapelhope--they were to scour the broken ground, take all those\nprisoners whom they found skulking, fire upon such as refused to stand,\nand meet on a certain height at noon. Copland and his party reached the\nappointed place without making any reprisal; they perceived some\nstragglers on the heights and rocks at a great distance, who always\nvanished away, like beings not of this world. Three of the other party\ntook one poor lad prisoner, who was so spent and emaciated that he had\nbeen unable to fly at the signal-sound; but so intent were they on blood\nthat he was not ever brought before their leader, who never so much as\nknew of the capture.\n\nThe guide was wont to relate the circumstances of this poor man's trial\nand execution, for, but for him, no such thing would ever have been\nknown; the death of a whig, or a straggler of any kind, was then a\nmatter of no concern--They were three Brae-mar Highlanders who took him;\nlike the most part of his associates, he answered their questions in a\nsurly manner, and by the most cutting retorts, which particularly\nenraged a Donald Farquharson, one of the party, against him. \"Weel,\nI'll pe pitting you to 'e test, and tat fery shun, my coot freen,\" said\nDonald; \"and I'll just pe teeling you, eince for a', tat ye haif ne meer\nbut tway meenets and a half to leef.\"\n\nThe poor forlorn wight answered, \"that he expected no better at their\nhands,--that he desired no longer time, and he hoped they would bear\npatiently with him for that short space.\" He then kneeled down and\nprayed most fervently, while Donald, who wanted only a hair to make a\ntether of, as the saying is, seemed watching diligently for a word at\nwhich to quarrel. At length he spoke words to the following purport.\n\"Father, forgive these poor misled creatures, as I forgive them; they\nare running blindly upon a wrong path, and without the power of thy\ngrace they shall never gain the right one more.\" Donald, who did not\nwell understand the dialect in which the prisoner prayed, looked\nshrewdly at his companions. \"Dugald More,\" said he--\"Dugald More, fat's\n'e man saying?\"\n\n\"He is praying,\" replied the other, \"that we may lose our way, and never\nfind it more.\"\n\n\"Cot t--n 'e soul o' 'e tief, is he?\" said Donald, and ran him through\nwith his bayonet.\n\nThe wounded man groaned, and cried most piteously, and even called out\n\"murder,\" but there was none to rescue or regard him. The soldiers,\nhowever, cut the matter short, by tossing him into a deep hole in the\nmorass, where he sunk in the mire and was seen no more.\n\nWhen Copland arrived at the place of rendezvous, five out of his ten\nassociates were no where to be seen, nor did they make their appearance,\nalthough he tarried there till two in the afternoon. The guide then\nconducted him by the path on which those missing should have come, and\non arriving at a narrow pass in Chapelhope, he found the bodies of the\nfour soldiers and their guide mangled and defaced in no ordinary\nway; and judging from this that he had been long enough in that\nneighbourhood, he hasted back to Traquair with the news of the loss.\nClavers is said to have broke out into the most violent rage, and to\nhave sworn that night by the Blessed Virgin and all the Holy Trinity,\nutterly to extirpate the seed of the d--d whining psalm-singing race\nfrom the face of the earth, and that ere Beltein there should not be as\nmuch whig blood in Scotland as would make a dish of soup to a dog. He\nhowever concealed from the privy council the loss of these five men, nor\ndid they ever know of it to this day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nThings were precisely in this state, when the goodman of Chapelhope,\ntaking his plaid and staff, went out to the heights one misty day in\nautumn to drive off a neighbour's flock from his pasture; but, as Walter\nwas wont to relate the story himself, when any stranger came there on a\nwinter evening, as long as he lived, it may haply be acceptable to the\ncurious, and the lovers of rustic simplicity, to read it in his own\nwords, although he drew it out to an inordinate length, and perhaps kept\nhis own personal feelings and prowess too much in view for the\nfastidious or critical reader to approve.\n\n\"It was on a mirk misty day in September,\" said Walter, \"I mind it\nweel, that I took my plaid about me, and a bit gay steeve aik stick in\nmy hand, and away I sets to turn aff the Winterhopeburn sheep. The wind\nhad been east-about a' that harst, I hae some sma' reason ne'er to\nforget it, and they had amaist gane wi' a' the gairs i' our North Grain.\nI weel expected I wad find them a' in the scaithe that dark day, and I\nwas just amind to tak them hame in a drove to Aidie Andison's door, and\nsay, 'Here's yer sheep for ye, lad; ye maun outher keep them better, or\nelse, gude faith, I'll keep them for ye.'--I had been crost and put\nabout wi' them a' that year, and I was just gaun to bring the screw to\nthe neb o' the mire-snipe.--Weel, off I sets--I had a special dog\nat my feet, and a bit gay fine stick in my hand, and I was rather\ncross-natured that day--'Auld Wat's no gaun to be o'er-trampit wi' nane\no' them, for a' that's come and gane yet,' quo' I to mysel as I gaed up\nthe burn.--Weel, I slings aye on wi' a gay lang step; but, by the time\nthat I had won the Forkings, I gat collied amang the mist, sae derk,\nthat fient a spark I could see--Stogs aye on through cleuch and gill,\nand a' the gairs that they used to spounge, but, to my great mervel, I\ncan nouther see a hair of a ewe's tail, nor can I hear the bleat of a\nlamb, or the bell of a wether--No ane, outher of my ain or ither\nfolks!--'Ay,' says I to mysel, 'what can be the meaning o' this? od,\nthere has been somebody here afore me the day!' I was just standin\nlooking about me amang the lang hags that lead out frae the head o' the\nNorth Grain, and considering what could be wort of a' the sheep, when I\nnoticed my dog, Reaver, gaun coursing away forrit as he had been setting\na fox. What's this, thinks I--On he gangs very angry like, cocking his\ntail, and setting up his birses, till he wan to the very brink of a deep\nhag; but when he gat there, my certy, he wasna lang in turning! Back he\ncomes, by me, an' away as the deil had been chasing him; as terrified a\nbeast I saw never--Od, sir, I fand the very hairs o' my head begin to\ncreep, and a prinkling through a' my veins and skin like needles and\npreens.--'God guide us!' thinks I, 'what can this _be_?' The day was\nderk, derk; for I was in the very stamoch o' the cludd, as it were;\nstill it was the day time, an' the e'e o' Heaven was open. I was as near\nturned an' run after my tike as ever I'll miss, but I just fand a stound\no' manheid gang through my heart, an' forrit I sets wi' a' the vents o'\nmy head open. 'If it's flesh an' blude,' thinks I, 'or it get the\nowrance o' auld Wat Laidlaw, od it sal get strength o' arm for aince.'\nIt was a deep hag, as deep as the wa's o' this house, and a strip o'\ngreen sward alang the bottom o't; and when I came to the brow, what does\nI see but twa lang liesh chaps lying sleeping at ither's sides, baith\nhappit wi' the same maud. 'Hallo!' cries I, wi' a stern voice, 'wha hae\nwe here?' If ye had but seen how they lookit when they stertit up; od,\nye wad hae thought they were twa scoundrels wakened frae the dead! I\nnever saw twa mair hemp-looking dogs in my life.\n\n'What are ye feared for, lads? Whaten twa blades are ye? Or what are ye\nseeking in sic a place as this?'\n\n'This is a derk day, gudeman.'\n\n'This is a derk day, gudeman! That's sic an answer as I heard never. I\nwish ye wad tell me something I dinna ken--and that's wha ye are, and\nwhat ye're seeking here?'\n\n'We're seeking nought o' yours, friend.'\n\n'I dinna believe a word o't--ye're nae folk o' this country--I doubt ye\nken o'er weel what stealing o' sheep is--But if ye winna tell me plainly\nand honestly your business here, the deil be my inmate gin I winna knock\nyour twa heads thegither.'\n\n'There is a gude auld say, honest man, _It is best to let sleeping dogs\nlie, they may rise and bite you_.'\n\n'Bite _me_, lad!--Rise an' bite _me_!--I wad like to see a dog on a' the\nheights o' Chapelhope that wad snarl at me, let be to bite!'\n\n\"I had a gay steeve dour aik stick in my hand, an' wi' that I begoud to\nheave't up, no to strike them, but just to gi'e them a glisk o' the\ncoming-on that was in't. By this time they were baith on their feet; and\nthe ane that was neist me he gi'es the tabie of his jockey-coat a fling\nback, and out he pu's a braid sword frae aneath it--an' wi' the same\nblink the ither whups a sma' spear out o' the heart o' his aik stick,\n'Here's for ye then, auld camstary,' says they; 'an unlucky fish gets an\nunlucky bait.' Od sir, I was rather stoundit; I began to look o'er my\nshouther, but there was naething there but the swathes o' mist. What wad\nI hae gien for twa minutes of auld John o' the Muchrah! However, there\nwas nae time to lose--it was come fairly to the neb o' the mire-snipe\nwi' me. I never was gude when taken by surprise a' my life--gie me a wee\ntime, an' I turn quite foundemental then--sae, to tell the truth, in my\nhurry I took the flier's part, flang the plaid frae me, and ran off up\nthe hag as fast as my feet could carry me, an' a' the gate the\nragamuffian wi' the sword was amaist close at my heels. The bottom o'\nthe hag was very narrow, twa could hardly rin abreast. My very bluid\nbegan to rise at being chased by twa skebels, and I thought I heard a\nvoice within me, crying, 'Dinna flee, Wat Laidlaw! dinna flee, auld Wat!\nye hae a gude cause by the end!' I wheeled just round in a moment, sir,\nand drew a desperate straik at the foremost, an' sae little kend the\nhaniel about fencing, that instead o' sweeing aff my downcome wi' his\nsword, he held up his sword-arm to save his head--I gart his arm just\nsnap like a pipe-stapple, and down fell his bit whittle to the ground,\nand he on aboon it. The tither, wi' his sma' spear, durstna come on,\nbut ran for it; I followed, and was mettler o' foot than he, but I\ndurstna grip him, for fear he had run his bit spit through my sma-fairns\ni' the struggle, for it was as sharp as a lance, but I keepit a little\nback till I gat the end o' my stick just i' the how o' his neck, and\nthen I gae him a push that soon gart him plew the flow with his nose. On\naboon him I gets, and the first thing I did was to fling away his bit\ntwig of a sword--I gart it shine through the air like a fiery\ndragon--then I took him by the cuff o' the neck, and lugged him back to\nhis neighbour, wha was lying graning in the hag. 'Now, billies,' says I,\n'ye shall answer face to face, it wad hae been as good soon as syne;\ntell me directly wha ye are, and what's your business here, or, d'ye\nhear me, I'll tye ye thegither like twa tikes, and tak ye to them that\nwill gar ye speak.'\n\n'Ah! lack-a-day, lack-a-day!' said the wounded man, 'ye're a rash,\nfoolish, passionate man, whaever ye be.'\n\n'Ye're maybe no very far wrang there,' quo' I; 'but for aince, I trow, I\nhad gude reason. Ye thought to kill _me_ wi' your bits o' shabbles o'\nswords!'\n\n'In the first place then,' said he, 'ken that we wadna hae shed ae drap\no' your blood, nor wranged a hair o' your head--all that we wanted was\nto get quit of ye, to keep ye out o' danger an' scaith. Ye hae made a\nbonny day's wark on't truly, we had naething in view but your ain\nsafety--but sin' ye will ken ye maun ken; we belang to a poor proscribed\nremnant, that hae fled from the face of a bloody persecution. We have\nleft all, and lost all, for the cause of our religion, and are driven\ninto this dismal wilderness, the only miserable retreat left us in our\nnative land.'\n\n'Od, sir! he hadna weel begun to speak till the light o' the truth began\nto dawn within me like the brek o' the day-sky, an' I grew as red too,\nfor the devil needna hae envied me my feelings at that time. I couldna\nhelp saying to mysel, 'Whow, whow, Wat Laidlaw! but ye hae made a bonny\njob o't this morning!--Here's twa puir creatures, worn out wi' famine\nand watching, come to seek a last refuge amang your hags and mosses, and\nye maun fa' to and be pelting and threshing on them like an incarnate\ndevil as ye are.--Oh, wae's me! wae's me!'--Lord, sir, I thought my\nheart wad burst--There was a kind o' yuke came into my een that I could\nhardly bruke; but at length the muckle tears wan out wi' a sair faught,\nand down they came down ower my beard, dribble for dribble. The men saw\nthe pliskie that I was in, and there was a kind o' ruefu' benevolence i'\ntheir looks, I never saw ony thing like it.'\n\n'Dinna be wae for us, honest man,' said they; 'we hae learned to\nsuffer--we hae kend nought else for this mony a lang and bloody year,\nan' we look for nought else for the wee while we hae to sojourn in this\nweary world--we hae learned to suffer patiently, and to welcome our\nsufferings as mercies.'\n\n'Ye've won a gude length, man,' quo' I; 'but they're mercies that I'm\nnever very fond o'--I wish ye had suffered under ony hand but mine, sin'\nit be your lot.'\n\n'Dinna be sorry for us, honest man; there never was an act o' mair\njustice than this that ye hae inflicted. Last night there were fifteen\no' us met at evening worship--we hadna tasted meat for days and nights;\nto preserve our miserable lives, we stole a sheep, dressed, and ate it;\nand wi' this very arm that you hae disabled, did I grip and kill that\nsheep. It was a great sin, nae doubt, but the necessity was also\ngreat--I am sae far punished, and I hope the Lord will forgie the rest.'\n\n'If he dinna,' quo' I, 'he's no what I think him.' Then he began a lang\nserious harangue about the riches o' free grace, and about the\nwickedness o' our nature; and said, that we could do naething o'\noursells _but_ sin. I said it was a hard construction, but I couldna\nargy the point ava wi' him--I never was a dab at these lang-winded\nstories. Then they cam on about prelacy and heresies, and something they\nca'd the act of abjuration. I couldna follow him out at nae rate; but I\nsays, I pit nae doubt, callants, but ye're right, for ye hae proven to\na' the warld that ye think sae; and when a man feels conscious that he's\nright, I never believe he can be far wrang in sic matters. But that's no\nthe point in question; let us consider what can be done for ye e'en\nnow--Poor souls! God kens, my heart's sair for ye; but this land's mine,\nan' a' the sheep around ye, an' ye're welcome to half-a-dozen o' the\nbest o' them in sic a case.'\n\n'Ah! lack-a-day, lack-a-day! If ye be the gudeman o' the Chapelhope,\nye'll rue the day that ever ye saw us. If it's kend that ye countenanced\nus in word or deed, ye're a ruined man; for the blood-hounds are near at\nhand, and they'll herry ye out and in, but and ben--Lack-a-day!\nlack-a-day! in a wee while we may gang and come by the Chapelhope, and\nnouther see a lum reek nor hear a cock craw; for Clavers is on the one\nhand and Lag on the other, and they're coming nearer and nearer us every\nday, and hemming us in sairer and sairer--renounce us and deny us, as ye\nwish to thrive.'\n\n'Na, na, lads, let them come--let them come their ways! Gin they should\ntake a' the ewes and kye on the Chapelhope, I can stock it o'er again. I\ndinna gie a bawbee about your leagues, and covenants, and associations,\nfor I think aye there's a good deal o' faction and dourness in them; but\nor I'll desert a fellow-creature that's oppressed, if he's an honest\nman, and lippens to me, od, I'll gie them the last drap o' my heart's\nbluid.'\n\n\"When they heard that, they took me out to the tap of a knowe, and\nbegan to whistle like plovers--nae herd alive could hae kend but they\nwere plovers--and or ever I wist, ilka hag, and den, and tod-hole round\nabout, seemed to be fu' o' plovers, for they fell a' to the whistling\nan' answering ane another at the same time. I had often been wondering\nhow they staid sae lang on the heights that year, for I heard them aye\nwhewing e'en an' morn; but little trowed I they were a' twa-handed\nplovers that I heard. In half an hour they had sic a squad gathered\nthegither as e'e never glimed on. There ye might hae seen auld\ngray-bearded ministers, lairds, weavers, and poor hinds, a' sharing the\nsame hard fate. They were pale, ragged, and hungry, and several o' them\nlame and wounded; and they had athegither sic a haggard severity i'\ntheir demeaner. Lord forgie me, gin I wasna feared to look at them!\nThere was ane o' them a doctor blade, wha soon set the poor chield's\narm; and he said, that after a' it wasna broken, but only dislockit and\nsair brizzed. That doctor was the gabbiest body ever I met wi'; he spake\nfor them a', and I whiles feared that he sclented a wee. He tried a'\nthat he could to make me a Cameronian, but I wadna grip; and when I was\ncoming away to leave him, 'Laidlaw,' quo' he, 'we ken ye to be an\nhonest, honourable man; here you see a remnant of poor, forlorn,\nmisrepresented creatures, who have thrown themselves on your mercy; if\nye betray us, it will be the worse for ye both here and hereafter; if\nyou save and protect us, the prayers of the just win their way to\nHeaven, though fiends should be standing by to oppose them--Ay, there's\nnaething can stop _their_ journey, Laidlaw!--The winds canna blaw them\naside, the clouds canna drown them, and the lights o' Heaven canna burn\nthem; and your name will stand at that bar where there's nae cruel and\npartial judge--What you gie to us, ye gie to your Maker, and he will\nrepay you seven fold.' Od, the body was like to gar me play the bairn\nand greet even out. Weel, I canna mind the half that he said, but he\nendit wi' this:--'We have seen our friends all bound, banished, and\ndestroyed; they have died on the field, on the scaffold, and at the\nstake; but the reek o' their blood shall drive the cruel Stuarts frae\nthe land they have disgraced, and out of it a church of truth and\nliberty shall spring. There is still a handfu' remaining in Israel that\nhave not yet bowed the knee to Baal, nor yet kissed him--That remnant\nhas fled here to escape the cruelty of man; but a worse fate threatens\nus now--we are all of us perishing with famine--For these three days we\nhave tasted nothing but the green moss, save a few wretched trouts,\neels, and adders.' 'Ethers, man!' quo' I,--'For the love o' God take\ncare how ye eat the ethers--ye may as weel cut your throats at aince as\neat them. Na, na, lad, that's meat that will never do.' I said nae mair,\nbut gae just a wave to my dog. 'Reaver,' quo' I, 'yon's away.'--In three\nminutes he had ten score o' ewes and wedders at my hand. I grippit twa\no' the best I could wale, and cut aff their heads wi' my ain knife.\n'Now, doctor,' quo' I, 'take these and roast them, and part them amang\nye the best way ye can--ye'll find them better than the ethers--Lord,\nman, it will never do to eat ethers.'\"\n\nAfter a hearty laugh, in which his guests generally joined, Walter\nconcluded thus: \"That meeting cost me twa or three hunder round\nbannocks, and mae gude ewes and wedders than I'll say; but I never\nmissed them, and I never rued what I did. Folk may say as they like, but\nI think aye the prayers out amang the hags and rash-bushes that year did\nme nae ill--It is as good to hae a man's blessing as his curse, let him\nbe what he may.\"\n\nWalter never went farther with his story straight onward than this; for\nit began to involve family concerns, which he did not much like to\nrecount. He had a number of abstract stories about the Covenanters and\ntheir persecutors; but as I must now proceed with the narrative as I\ngathered it from others, these will be interwoven in their due course.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nWalter visited them next day at the time and place appointed, taking\nwith him a dozen of bannocks and a small cheese. These he was obliged to\nsteal out of his own pantry, for he durst not by any means trust his\nwife and family with the discovery he had made, knowing that he might as\nwell have confided it with the curate himself, the sworn enemy of his\nmotley protegees. They gathered around him with protestations of\ngratitude and esteem; for the deserted and oppressed generally cling to\nthe first symptoms of friendship and protection with an ardency that too\noften overshoots its aim. Walter naturally felt an honest pride, not so\nmuch in that he had done, as that he intended to do; but before he\nproduced his repast, he began in a most serious way to question them\nrelating to some late incidents already mentioned.\n\nThey all with one assent declared, and took God to witness, that they\nknew nothing at all about the death of the five soldiers; that it was\nnot perpetrated by them, nor any connected with them; nor could they\ncomprehend, in the least degree, how it was effected, if not by some\nsupernatural agency--a judgment sent down from Heaven for their bloody\nintent. With regard to the murder of the priest, they were sorry that\nthey knew so much. It was perpetrated by a few rash men of their number,\nbut entirely without their concurrent assent, as well as knowledge; that\nthough his death might have been necessary to the saving of a great\nnumber of valuable lives, they had, nevertheless, unanimously protested\nagainst it; that the perpetrators had retired from their body, they knew\nnot whither; and that at that very time the Rev. Messrs Alexander\nShiels and James Renwick were engaged in arranging for publication a\ngeneral protest against many things alleged against them by their\nenemies, and that among others.[A]\n\nThere was a candour in this to which Walter's heart assented. He feasted\nthem with his plentiful and homely cheer--promised to visit them every\nday, and so to employ his shepherds that none of them should come into\nthat quarter to distress them. Walter was as good as his word--He\nvisited them every day--told them all the news that he could gather of\nthe troops that beleagured them--of the executions that were weekly and\ndaily taking place--and of every thing else relating to the state of the\ncountry. He came loaden with food to them daily; and when he found it\nimpossible to steal his own bread, butter, and cheese, he supplied their\nwants from his flock. The numbers of the persecuted increased on his\nhands incalculably--The gudewife of Chapelhope's bannocks vanished by\nscores, and the unconscionable, insatiable Brownie of Bodsbeck was\nblamed for the whole.\n\nSome time previous to this, a young vagrant, of the name of Kennedy,\nchanced to be out on these moors shooting grouse, which were extremely\nplentiful. He tarried until the twilight, for he had the art of calling\nthe heath-fowl around him in great numbers, by imitating the cry of the\nhen. He took his station for this purpose in one of those moss-hags\nformerly described; but he had not well begun to call ere his ears were\nsaluted by the whistling of so many plovers that he could not hear his\nown voice. He was obliged to desist, and lay for some time listening, in\nexpectation that they would soon cease crying. When lying thus, he heard\ndistinctly the sound of something like human voices, that spoke in\nwhispers hard by him; he likewise imagined that he heard the pattering\nof feet, which he took for those of horses, and, convinced that it was a\nraid of the fairies, he became mortally afraid; he crept closer to the\nearth, and in a short time heard a swell of the most mellifluous music\nthat ever rose on the night. He then got up, and fled with precipitation\naway, as he thought, from the place whence the music seemed to arise;\nbut ere he had proceeded above an hundred paces, he met with one of the\nstrangest accidents that ever happened to man.\n\nThat same night, about, or a little before, the hour of midnight, two of\nLaidlaw's men, who happened to be awake, imagined that they heard a\nslight noise without; they arose, and looked cautiously out at a small\nhole that was in the end of the stable where they slept, and beheld to\ntheir dismay the appearance of four men, who came toward them carrying a\ncoffin; on their coming close to the corner of the stable, where the two\nmen stood, the latter heard one of them say distinctly, in a whisper,\n\"Where shall we lay him?\"\n\n\"We must leave him in the barn,\" said another.\n\n\"I fear,\" said a third, \"the door of that will be locked;\" and they past\non.\n\nThe men were petrified; they put on their clothes, but they durst not\nmove, until, in a short time thereafter, a dreadful bellowing and noise\nburst forth about the door of the farm-house. The family was alarmed,\nand gathered out to see what was the matter; and behold! there lay poor\nKennedy in a most piteous plight, and, in fact, stark staring mad. He\ncontinued in a high fever all the night, and the next morning; but a\nlittle after noon he became somewhat more calm, and related to them a\nmost marvellous tale indeed.\n\nHe said, that by the time he arose to fly from the sound of the music,\nthe moor was become extremely dark, and he could not see with any degree\nof accuracy where he was running, but that he still continued to hear\nthe sounds, which, as he thought, came still nigher and nigher behind\nhim. He was, however, mistaken in this conjecture; for in a short space\nhe stumbled on a hole in the heath, into which he sunk at once, and fell\ninto a pit which he described as being at least fifty fathom deep; that\nhe there found himself immediately beside a multitude of hideous beings,\nwith green clothes, and blue faces, who sat in a circle round a small\ngolden lamp, gaping and singing with the most eldrich yells. In one\ninstant all became dark, and he felt a weight upon his breast that\nseemed heavier than a mountain. They then lifted him up, and bore him\naway through the air for hundreds of miles, amid regions of utter\ndarkness; but on his repeating the name of Jesus three times, they\nbrought him back, and laid him down in an insensible state at the door\nof Chapelhope.\n\nThe feelings depicted in the features of the auditors were widely\ndifferent on the close of this wonderful relation. The beauteous\nKatharine appeared full of anxious and woful concern, but no marks of\nfear appeared in her lovely face. The servants trembled every limb, and\ndeclared with one voice, that no man about Chapelhope was now sure of\nhis life for a moment, and that nothing less than double wages should\ninduce them to remain there another day. The goodwife lifted up her eyes\nto Heaven, and cried, \"O the vails! the vails!--the vails are poured,\nand to pour!\"\n\nWalter pretended to laugh at the whole narration; but when he did, it\nwas with an altered countenance, for he observed, what none of them did,\nthat Kennedy had indeed been borne through the air by some means or\nother; for his shoes were all covered with moss, which, if he had\nwalked, could not have been there, for the grass would have washed it\noff from whatever quarter he had come.\n\nKennedy remained several days about Chapelhope in a thoughtful, half\ndelirious frame; but no entreaties could prevail with him at that time\nto accompany the men of the place to where he supposed the accident had\nhappened, nor yet to give them any account where it was situated, for he\naverred that he heard a voice say to him in a solemn tone, \"If you wish\nto live long, never tell what you have seen to-night, nor ever come this\nway again.\" Happy had it been for him had he attended all along to this\ninjunction. He slipped away from Chapelhope in a few days, and was no\nmore seen until the time that Copland and his men appeared there. It was\nhe who came as guide to that soldiers that were slain, and he fell with\nthem in the strait linn of the South Grain of Chapelhope.\n\nThese mysterious and unaccountable incidents by degrees impressed the\nminds of the inhabitants with terror that cannot be described; no woman\nor boy would go out of doors after sunset, on any account whatever, and\nthere was scarcely a man who durst venture forth alone after the fall of\nevening. If they could have been sure that brownies and fairies had only\npower to assume the human shape, they would not have been nearly in such\nperil and perplexity; but there was no form of any thing animate or\ninanimate, save that of a lamb, that they were sure of; they were of\ncourse waylaid at every turn, and kept in continual agitation. An owl\nwas a most dangerous and suspicious-looking fellow--a white glede made\nthem quake, and keep a sharp look-out upon his course in the air--a\nhare, with her large intelligent eyes and equivocal way of walking, was\nan object of general distrust--and a cat, squalling after dark, was the\ndevil. Many were the ludicrous scenes that occurred, among which I\ncannot help mentioning those which follow, as being particularly\nwhimsical.\n\nJasper, son to old John of the Muchrah, was the swiftest runner of his\ntime; but of all those whose minds were kept in continual agitation on\naccount of the late inundation of spirits into the country, Jasper was\nthe chief. He was beset by them morning and evening; and even at high\nnoon, if the day was dark, he never considered himself as quite safe. He\ndepended entirely upon his speed in running to avoid their hellish\nintercourse; he essayed no other means--and many wonderful escapes he\neffected by this species of exertion alone. He was wont to knit\nstockings while tending his flock on the mountains; and happening to\ndrop some yarn one evening, it trailed after him in a long ravelled coil\nalong the sward. It was a little after the sun had gone down that Jasper\nwas coming whistling and singing over the shoulder of the Hermon Law,\nwhen, chancing to cast a casual glance behind him, he espied something\nin shape of a horrible serpent, with an unequal body, and an enormous\nlength of tail, coming stealing along the bent after him. His heart\nleapt to his mouth, (as he expressed it,) and his hair bristled so that\nit thrust the bonnet from his head. He knew that no such monster\ninhabited these mountains, and it momently occurred to him that it was\nthe Brownie of Bodsbeck come to seize him in that most questionable\nshape. He betook him to his old means of safety in great haste, never\ndoubting that he was well qualified to run from any object that crawled\non the ground with its belly; but, after running a considerable way, he\nperceived his adversary coming at full stretch along the hill after him.\nHis speed was redoubled; and, as he noted now and then that his\ninveterate pursuer gained no ground on him, his exertion was beyond that\nof man. There were two shepherds on an opposite hill who saw Jasper\nrunning without the plaid and the bonnet, and with a swiftness which\nthey described as quite inconceivable. The cause set conjecture at\ndefiance; but they remarked, that though he grew more and more spent,\nwhenever he glanced behind he exerted himself anew, and strained a\nlittle harder. He continued his perseverance to the last, as any man\nwould do who was running for bare life, until he came to a brook called\nthe Ker Cleuch, in the crossing of which he fell down exhausted; he\nturned on his back to essay a last defence, and, to his joyful\nastonishment, perceived that the serpent likewise lay still and did not\nmove. The truth was then discovered; but many suspected that Jasper\nnever overcame that heat and that fright as long as he lived.\n\nJasper, among many encounters with the fairies and brownies, had another\nthat terminated in a manner not quite so pleasant. The Brownie of\nBodsbeck, or the Queen of the Fairies, (he was not sure which of them\nit was,) came to him one night as he was lying alone, and wide awake, as\nhe conceived, and proffered him many fine things, and wealth and honours\nin abundance, if he would go along to a very fine country, which Jasper\nconjectured must have been Fairyland. He resisted all these tempting\noffers in the most decided manner, until at length the countenance of\nhis visitant changed from the most placid and bewitching beauty to that\nof a fiend. The horrible form grappled with him, laid hold of both his\nwrists, and began to drag him off by force; but he struggled with all\nthe energy of a man in despair, and at length, by a violent exertion, he\ndisengaged his right hand. The enemy still continuing, however, to haul\nhim off with the other, he was obliged to have recourse to a desperate\nexpedient. Although quite naked, he reached his clothes with the one\nhand and drew his knife; but, in endeavouring to cut off those fingers\nwhich held his wrist so immovably fast, he fairly severed a piece of\nthe thumb from his own left hand.\n\nThis was the very way that Jasper told the story to his dying day,\ndenying stoutly that he was in a dream; and, singular as it may appear,\nI can vouch for the truth of it. Jasper Hay died at Gattonside at a\nright old age, in the year 1739; and they are yet alive who have heard\nhim tell those stories, and seen him without the thumb of the left hand.\n\nThings went on in this distracted and doubtful manner until the time\nwhen Walter is first introduced. On that day, at the meeting place, he\nfound no fewer than 130 of the poor wanderers, many of them assembled to\nsee him for the last time, and take an affectionate leave of him; for\nthey had previously resolved to part, and scatter themselves again over\nthe west country, even though certain death awaited them, as they could\nnot in conscience longer remain to be the utter ruin of one who was so\ngenerous and friendly to them. They saw, that not only would his whole\nstock be wasted, but he would himself be subjected to confiscation of\ngoods, and imprisonment, if to nothing worse. Walter said, the case\nseemed hard either way; but he had been thinking, that perhaps, if they\nremained quiet and inoffensive in that seclusion, the violence of the\ngovernment might in a little relax, and they might then retire to their\nrespective homes in peace. Walter soon heard with vexation that they\nmade conscience of _not living in peace_, but of proclaiming aloud to\nthe world the grievous wrongs and oppression that the church of Christ\nin Scotland laboured under. The _doctor chap_, as Walter always called\nhim, illustrated at great length the sin that would lie to their charge,\nshould they remain quiet and passive in a time like that, when the\nchurch's all was at stake in these realms. \"We are but a remnant,\" added\nhe, \"a poor despised remnant; but if none stand up for the truth of the\nreformed religion, how are ever our liberties, civil or ecclesiastical,\nto be obtained? There are many who think with us, and who feel with us,\nwho yet have not the courage to stand up for the truth; but the time\nmust ere long come, that the kingdoms of the land will join in\nsupporting a reformation, for the iniquity of the Amorite is wearing to\nthe full.\"\n\nWalter did not much like disputing about these matters; but in this he\nfelt that his reason acquiesced, and he answered thus: \"Ye speak like a\ntrue man, and a clever man, Doctor; and if I had a desperate cause by\nthe end, and wanted ane to back me in't, the deil a step wad I gang\nayont this moss hag to find him; but, Doctor, there's a time for every\nthing. I wadna hae ye to fling away a gude cause, as I wad do a rotten\newe, that winna haud ony langer. But dinna ye think that a fitter time\nmay come to mak a push? ye'll maybe sell mae precious lives for nae end,\nwi' your declarations; take care that you, and the like o' you, haena\nthese lives to answer for.--I like nae desperate broostles--od, man,\nit's like ane that's just gaun to turn divour, taking on a' the debt he\ncan.\"\n\n\"Dinna fear, gudeman! dinna fear! There's nae blood shed in sic a cause\nthat can ever be shed in vain. Na, na! that blood will argue better at\nthe bar o' Heaven for poor distressed Scotland than all the prayers of\nall the living. We hae done muckle, but we'll do mair yet--muckle blood\nhas been wantonly and diabolically shed, and our's may rin wi' the\nrest--we'll no thraw't wantonly and exultingly away; but, when our day\ncomes, we'll gie it cheerfully--as cheerfully, gudeman, as ever ye paid\nyour mail to a kind landlord, even though the season had been hard and\nstormy. We had aince enough of this warld's wealth, and to spare; but we\nhae naething now but our blood, and we'll part wi' that as cheerfully as\nthe rest. And it will tell some day! and ye may live to see it yet. But\nenough, gudeman; we have all resolved, that, whatever the consequence\nmay be, to live no more on your bounty--therefore, do not urge it--but\ngive us all your hand--Farewell!--and may God bless you in all your\nactings and undertakings!--There is little chance that we shall ever\nmeet again--We have no reward to give but our blessing and good wishes;\nbut, whenever a knee here present is bowed at the footstool of grace,\nyou will be remembered.\"\n\nWalter could not bear thus to part with them, and to give them up as it\nwere to certain destruction. He argued as well as he could on the\nimprudence of the step they were going to take--of the impossibility of\ntheir finding a retreat so inaccessible in all the bounds of the south\nof Scotland, and the prospect that there was of the persecution soon\nrelaxing. But when he had said all that he could say, a thin spare old\nman, with grey dishevelled locks, and looks, Walter said, as stern as\nthe adders that he had lately been eating, rose up to address him.\nThere was that in his manner which commanded the most intense attention.\n\n\"Dost thou talk of our rulers relaxing?\" said he. \"Blind and mistaken\nman! thou dost not know them. No; they will never relax till their blood\nshall be mixed with their sacrifices. That insatiate, gloomy, papistical\ntyrant and usurper, the Duke of York, and his commissioner, have issued\nlaws and regulations more exterminating than ever. But yesterday we\nreceived the woeful intelligence, that, within these eight days, one\nhundred and fifty of our brethren have suffered by death or banishment,\nand nearly one-half of these have been murdered, even without the sham\nformality of trial or impeachment, nor had they intimation of the fate\nthat awaited them. York hath said in full assembly, 'that neither the\nrealm nor the mother-church can ever be safe, until the south of\nScotland is again made a hunting forest;' and his commissioner hath\nsworn by the living God, 'that never a whig shall again have time or\nwarning to prepare for Heaven, for that hell is too good for them.' Can\nwe hope for these men relaxing? No! The detestable and bloody Clavers,\nthat wizard! that eater of toads! that locust of the infernal pit, hems\nus in closer and closer on one side, and that Muscovite beast on the\nother! They thirst for our blood; and our death and tortures are to them\nmatter of great sport and amusement. My name is Mackail! I had two brave\nand beautiful sons, and I had but two; one of these had his brains shot\nout on the moss of Monyhive without a question, charge, or reply. I\ngathered up his brains and shattered skull with these hands, tied them\nin my own napkin, and buried him alone, for no one durst assist me. His\nmurderers stood by and mocked me, cursed me for a dog, and swore if I\nhowled any more that they would send me after him. My eldest son, my\nbeloved Hew, was hung like a dog at the Market-cross of Edinburgh. I\nconversed with him, I prayed with him in prison, kissed him, and bade\nhim farewell on the scaffold! My brave, my generous, my beautiful son! I\ntell thee, man, thou who preachest up peace and forbearance with\ntyrants, should ever the profligate Charles, or his diabolical\nbrother--should ever the murderer Clavers, or any of his hell-hounds of\nthe north, dare set foot in Heaven, one look from the calm benignant\nface of my martyred son would drive them out howling!\"\n\nAll this time the old man shed not a tear; his voice was wildly solemn,\nbut his looks were mixed with madness. He had up his hand to swear, to\npray, or to prophecy, Walter knew not which, but he was restrained by\nhis associates, and led aside, so that Walter saw no more of him; but he\nsaid he could not get him out of his mind for many a day, for sic\nanother desperate auld body he had never seen.\n\nThese harangues took up much of the time that they had to spare, but ere\nthey parted Walter persuaded them, probably by his strong homely\nreasoning, to remain where they were. He said, since they persisted in\nrefusing to take more of his flock, there was an extensive common beyond\nthe height, called Gemsope, which had been a royal forest, where many\ngentlemen and wealthy farmers had sheep that fed promiscuously; and\nconsidering their necessitous circumstances, he thought it no evil, and\nhe advised them to go and take from that glen as many as would serve to\nsupport nature for a time;--that for his part he had many a good wedder\nand dinmont there, and was willing to run his risk, which would then\nfall equal on a number, and only on such as were rich and could well\nbear it. In this plan, after some scruples which were overborne by the\nmajority, they at length fully and thankfully acquiesced.\n\nThat same day, on his way homeward, Walter heard the wonderful relation\nof the apparition of his beloved daughter in the Hope at midnight; he\nlearned that Clavers would be there in a few days, and he had sent away\nabove 100 men to steal sheep--all these things made him thoughtful and\nuneasy after he had reached his home, wet and fatigued.--\"It will be a\nbloody night in Gemsope this,\" he said, sighing, not recollecting what\nhe said or to whom he said it. He could trust his wife with any of his\nfamily concerns, but as long as she continued to be so much influenced\nby the curate Clerk, the sworn enemy of his poor persecuted flock, he\ndurst not give her a hint of their retreat.\n\nWalter became still more and more perplexed from all that he heard from\nhis wife, as well as from every one else--he found that, in truth, there\nwas some mysterious thing about his house--the whole family seemed\nconvinced of it--there were many things seen, heard, and done there that\nhe could in nowise account for in a rational way, and though he resisted\nthe general belief for a good while, that the house was haunted,\ncircumstances at length obliged him to yield to the torrent, and he\nbelieved as faithfully in the Brownie of Bodsbeck as any of them all.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[A] This curious protest is still extant, and shows the true spirit of\nthe old Covenanters or Cameronians, as they have since been called,\nbetter than any work remaining. It is called in the title page, \"_An\ninformatory Vindication of a poor, wasted, misrepresented Remnant of the\nsuffering Anti-popish, Anti-prelatic, Anti-erastian, Anti-sectarian,\ntrue Presbyterian Church of Christ in Scotland_.\" It is dated at\nLeadhills in 1687, and is the conjoint work of Mr James Renwick, and Mr\nAlexander Shiels, author of _The Hind let loose_. The following is an\nextract from it, p. 107:--\n\n\"And in like manner we do hereby disclaim all unwarrantable practices\ncommitted by any few persons reputed to be of us, whereby the Lord hath\nbeen offended, his cause wronged, and we all made to endure the scourge\nof tongues; for which things we have desired to make conscience of\nmourning before the Lord, both in public and private. As the\nunwarrantable manner of killing that curate at the Corsephairn, though\nhe was a man of death both by the laws of God and man, and the fact not\nmaterially murder; it being gone about contrary to our declaration,\ncommon or competent consent, (the conclusion and deed being known only\nto three or four persons) in a rash and not a Christian manner, and also\nother offences being committed at the time; which miscarriages have\nproven a mean to stop and retard lawful, laudable, and warrantable\nproceeding, both as to matter and manner.\"\n\nThese _other offences committed at the time_, unquestionably refer to\nthe slaughter of the Highland soldiers; about which, there was great\nstir and numerous conjectures in the country; although, owing to the\nrevolution that immediately followed, the perpetrators were never taken,\nnor the cause tried in a court of justice, nor indeed was the incident\never generally known.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nThe house which Walter occupied was on the very spot where the\nfarm-house of Chapelhope now stands, but it was twice as long; indeed, a\npart of the house that is still standing, or was lately so, is the very\none that was built for Laidlaw when he first entered to that large farm.\nThere was likewise an outshot from the back of the house, called the Old\nRoom, which had a door that entered from without, as well as one from\nthe parlour within. The end of this apartment stood close to the bottom\nof the steep bank behind the house, which was then thickly wooded, as\nwas the whole of the long bank behind, so that, consequently, any one,\nwith a little caution, might easily have gone out or come in there,\nwithout being seen by any of the family. It contained a bed, in which\nany casual vagrant, or itinerant pedlar slept, besides a great deal of\nlumber; and as few entered there, it had altogether a damp, mouldy,\ndismal appearance. There was likewise a dark closet in one corner of it,\nwith an old rusty lock, which none of the family had ever seen opened.\n\nThe most part of the family soon grew suspicious of this place. Sounds,\neither real or imaginary, were heard issuing from it, and it was\ncarefully shunned by them all. Walter had always, as I said, mocked at\nthe idea of the Old Room being haunted, until that very night when we\nbegan with him, and where, after many round-abouts, we have now found\nhim again.\n\nIt will be recollected that the conversation between Walter and his\nwife, which is narrated in the first chapter of this book, terminated\nwith a charge from him never more to mention the mysterious story\nrelating to their daughter and these five men that were destroyed.\nAfter this she retired about some housewife business, and left Walter by\nhimself to muse on that he had seen and heard. He was sitting musing,\nand that deeply, on the strange apparition of his daughter that old John\nhad seen, when he thought he heard something behind him making a sound\nas if it growled inwardly. He looked around and saw that it was his dog\nReaver, who was always an inmate of every place that his master\nentered--he was standing in an attitude of rage, but at the same time\nthere was a mixture of wild terror in his appearance--His eyes, that\ngleamed like red burning coals, were pointed directly to the door that\nopened from the corner of the parlour into the Old Room--Walter was\nastonished, for he well knew his acuteness, but he kept his eyes on him\nand said not a word--The dog went forward with a movement scarce\nperceptible, until he came close to the door, but on putting his nose\nand ear to the bottom of it, he burst out with such a bay and howl as\nwere truly frightful, and ran about the apartment as if mad, trying to\nbreak through the walls and window boards.--Walter was fairly overcome;\nthere is nothing frightens a shepherd so much as the seeing of his dog\nfrightened. The shepherd's dog of the true breed will boldly attack any\nanimal on earth in defence of his master, or at his command; and it is\nno good sign indeed when he appears terrified, for the shepherd well\nknows that his dog can discover spirits by the savour of the wind, when\nhe is all unconscious that any such beings are near.\n\nWalter fled into the kitchen with precipitation--he found all the family\nstanding in alarm, for they had heard the hideous uproar in the room.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said half-a-dozen at once.\n\n\"What's the matter!\" said Walter, churlishly--\"nothing at all is the\nmatter--tell me who of you were in the Old Room, and what you were\nseeking there?\"\n\n\"No--none of them had been in the Old Room--the whole of the family were\npresent, nor had one of them been away.\"\n\nWalter's countenance changed--he fixed his eyes on the ground for the\nspace of a minute.\n\n\"Then I am sure,\" said he, emphatically, \"something worse is there.\"\n\nA breathless silence ensued; save that some groans and muttered prayers\nissued from the lips of the goodwife, who sat in a posture of deep\nhumility, with her brow leaned on both hands.\n\n\"Some of you go and see,\" added Walter, \"what it _is_ that is in the Old\nRoom.\"\n\nEvery eye in the house turned on another, but no one spoke or offered to\nmove. At length Katharine, who seemed in great anxiety lest any of them\nshould have had the courage to go, went lightly up to her father, and\nsaid, \"I will go, sir, if you please.\"\n\n\"Do, my dear, and let some of the men go with you.\"\n\n\"No, sir; none of the men shall go with me.\"\n\n\"Well then, Keatie, make haste; light a candle, and I will go with you\nmyself.\"\n\n\"No--with your leave, father, if I go, I go alone; no one shall go with\nme.\"\n\n\"And why, my love, may not I, your father, accompany you?\"\n\n\"Because, should you go with me into the Old Room just now, perhaps you\nmight never be yourself again.\"\n\nHere the goodwife uttered a smothered scream, and muttered some\ninarticulate ejaculations, appearing so much affected, that her\ndaughter, dreading she would fall into a fit, flew to support her; but\non this she grew ten times worse, screaming aloud, \"Avoid thee, Satan!\navoid thee, Satan! avoid thee, imp of darkness and despair! avoid thee!\navoid thee!\" And she laid about her violently with both hands. The\nservants, taking it for granted that she was bewitched, or possessed,\nfled aloof; but Walter, who knew better how matters stood with her mind\nthan they, ran across the floor to her in such haste and agitation, that\nthey supposed he was going to give her _strength of arm_, (his great\nexpedient when hardly controuled,) but in place of that, he lifted her\ngently in his arms, and carried her to her bed, in the further end of\nthe house.\n\nHe then tried to sooth her by every means in his power; but she\ncontinued in violent agitation, sighing, weeping, and praying\nalternately, until she wrought herself into a high nervous fever.\nWalter, growing alarmed for her reason, which seemed verging to a\ndangerous precipice, kept close by her bed-side. A little before\nmidnight she grew calm; and he, thinking she had fallen asleep, left her\nfor a short time. Unfortunately, her daughter, drawn toward her by\nfilial regard and affection, softly then entered the room. Maron Linton\nwas not so sound asleep as was supposed; she instantly beheld the\napproach of that now dreaded sorceress, and sitting up in her bed, she\nscreamed as loud as she was able. Katharine, moved by a natural impulse,\nhasted forward to the couch to calm her parent; but the frenzied matron\nsprung from her bed, threw up the window, and endeavoured to escape;\nKatharine flew after her, and seized her by the waist. When Maron found\nthat she was fairly in her grasp at such an hour, and no help at hand,\nshe deemed all over with her, both body and soul; which certainly was a\ncase extreme enough. She hung by the sash of the window, struggled, and\nyelled out, \"Murder! murder! murder!--O Lord! O Lord!--save! save! save!\nsave!--Murder! murder!\" &c. At length Walter rushed in and seized her,\nordering his weeping daughter instantly to bed.\n\nMaron thanked Heaven for this wonderful and timely deliverance, and\npersuaded now that Providence had a special and peculiar charge over\nher, she became more calm than she had been since the first alarm; but\nit was a dreadful certainty that she now possessed, that unearthly\nbeings inhabited the mansion along with her, and that her daughter was\none of the number, or in conjunction with them. She spent the night in\nprayer, and so fervent was she in her devotions, that she seemed at\nlength to rest in the hope of their final accomplishment. She did not\nfail, however, to hint to Walter that something decisive ought to be\ndone to their daughter. She did not actually say that she should be\nburnt alive at a stake, but she spake of the trial by fire--or that it\nmight be better to throw her into the lake, to make the experiment\nwhether she would drown or not; for she well expected, in her own mind,\nthat when the creature found itself in such circumstances, it would fly\noff with an eldrich laugh and some unintelligible saying to its own\nclime; but she was at length persuaded by her husband to intrust the\nwhole matter to her reverend monitor, both as to the driving away the\nherd of Brownies, and the exorcism of her daughter.\n\nNever was man in such a predicament as Walter now found himself with\nregard to his family. Katharine had never been a favourite with her\nmother, who doated on her boys to the detriment of the girl, but to him\nshe was all in all. Her demeanour of late completely puzzled him--The\nwords that she had said to him the preceding evening had no appearance\nof jocularity; besides, seriousness and truth formed her natural\ncharacter, and she had of late become more reserved and thoughtful than\nshe had ever been before.\n\nThe bed that she slept in faced into the parlour before mentioned;\nthat which Walter and his spouse occupied entered from another\napartment--their backs, however, were only separated by a thin wooden\npartition. Walter kept awake all that night, thoughtful, and listening\nto every sound. Every thing remained quiet till about the second crowing\nof the cock; he then heard something that scratched like a rat, but\nmore regularly, and in more distinct time. After the noise had been\nrepeated three times at considerable intervals, he thought he heard his\ndaughter rising from her bed with extraordinary softness and caution--He\nlaid his ear to a seam, and distinctly heard the sound of words uttered\nin a whisper, but of their import he could make nothing. He then heard\nhis daughter return to her bed with the same caution that she left it,\nutter some sighs, and fall sound asleep.\n\nAfter serious deliberation, Walter thought his best expedient was to\nremove his daughter from home for some time; and next morning he\nproposed to her to go and spend a week or two with her maternal uncle,\nThomas Linton, farmer at Gilmanscleuch. To this she objected on several\npretences; but at length, when urged to it, positively refused to leave\nher father's house at that time. He never in his life could say a harsh\nword to her, but that day he appeared chagrined, and bade her, with\nsome asperity, keep away from her mother's presence, as her malady,\nwhich was a nervous complaint, required the utmost quietness. This she\npromised with her accustomed cheerfulness, and they parted. During the\nday she was absent for several hours, none knowing whither she went, or\nby what way she returned.\n\nOn the same day, the servants, who had spent a sleepless night, packed\nup bag and baggage, and went off in a body, all save one elderly woman,\nwho had lately come to the house, and was a stranger to them all. Her\nname, she said, was Agnes Alexander, but she was better known by the\nfamiliar one of Nanny Elshinder; her former history and connections were\ndoubtful, but she was of a cheerful complaisant temper, and always\nperformed what she was ordered to do without any remarks. Walter had\nhired her at Moffat, in the fair called _The Third Friday_; and told\nMaron when he came home, that \"he had hired a wastlin auldish quean,\nwha, he believed, was a wee crackit i'the head, but, poor thing, she\nwasna like to get a place, and was sic a good soul he coudna think to\nleave her destitute; and whanever he begoud to parley wi' her, od, she\nbrought him to the neb o' the mire-snipe directly.\" Saving this good\nwoman, all the house servants, man, woman, and boy, deserted their\nservice, and neither promises nor threats could induce them to stay\nanother night about the town. They said, \"they might as weel bide i'\nhell; they wad gang afore Gibby Moray, the king's shirra, whanever he\nlikit about it; or, gin he buid rather hae brawer burlymen, they wad\nmeet him face to face in the Parliment Close.\"\n\nWalter was now obliged to bring Jasper, his young shepherd, down from\nthe Muchrah, to assist him in the labour of the farm--the most unfit man\nin the world for a haunted house. He knew that the Old Room was\nfrequented by his old adversary, the Brownie of Bodsbeck. He likewise\nknew that his young mistress was a witch, or something worse, for the\nlate servants had told him, so that he had now a dangerous part to act.\nNevertheless, he came determined to take the bull by the horns; for as\nhe and his father had stocks of sheep upon the farm, they could not\nleave their master, and he was never wont to disobey him. He had one\nsole dependance--his swiftness of foot--that had never yet failed him in\neschewing them, save in the solitary instance of the serpent.\n\nOn the first day of his noviceship as a labourer, he and his master were\nputting some ropes on the dwelling-house to keep on the thatch. Jasper\nwanting something whereon to stand, for that purpose, and being within a\nfew yards of the door of the Old Room, and knowing that the tubs stood\nthere, thoughtlessly dashed into it to bring out one to stand on; but he\nhad not taken two steps within the door till he beheld a human face,\nand nothing but a face and a head, looking deliberately at him. One\nwould have thought that such a man, seeing such a sight, would have\ncried out, fled to his master on the other side of the house, or into\nthe kitchen to old Nanny. Jasper did none of them all. He turned round\nwith such velocity that he fell--hasted out at the door on all fours,\nand took to the Piper-hill like a wild deer, praying fervently all the\nway. His master saw him from the ladder where he stood, and called aloud\nafter him, but he deigned not to heed or look behind him--the head\nwithout the body, and that at an ordinary distance from the ground, was\nalone impressed on his mind, and refused a share to any other\nconsideration. He came not back to the Chapelhope that night.\n\nKatharine, the young and comely friend of the Brownie, having discovered\nthat Jasper had been introduced to her familiar, and knowing his truth\nand simplicity of heart, earnestly desired to sound him on the subject.\nShe knew he would return to assist her father and brothers with the farm\nlabour, in their present strait, by a certain hour next morning, and she\nwaited on him by the way. He came accordingly; but he knew her and her\nconnections better than she imagined. He tried to avoid her, first by\ngoing down into the meadow, then by climbing the hill; but seeing that\nshe waylaid him both ways, and suspecting her intentions to be of the\nvery worst nature, he betook him to his old expedient--fled with\nprecipitation, and returned to the Muchrah.\n\nKatharine could by no means comprehend this, and was particularly\nconcerned about it at this time, as she had something she wished to\nreveal to him. Walter appeared gloomy and discontented all that day. The\ncorn was ripe, but not a sheaf of it cut down;--the hay was still\nstanding on the meadow, the lint was to pull, the potatoes to raise,\nthe tar to bring home, and the sheep to smear; and there was no one left\nto do all this but he and his two boys. The gudewife, who used to bustle\nabout and do much household work, was confined to her room. His\ndaughter's character, her demeanour, and even her humanity, were become\nsomewhat doubtful. Walter was truly in what he termed _a pickled\npriminary_.\n\nKatharine, being still debarred all access to her mother, began to dread\nthat she would be obliged to leave her father's house; and, in case of a\nlast extremity, she bethought her of sounding the dispositions of old\nNanny. She was a character not easily to be comprehended. She spoke much\nto herself, but little to any other person--worked so hard that she\nseldom looked up, and all the while sung scraps of old songs and\nballads, the import of which it was impossible to understand; but she\noften chaunted these with a pathos that seemed to flow from the heart,\nand that never failed to affect the hearer. She wore a russet worsted\ngown, clouted shoes, and a quoif, or mutch, upon her head, that was\ncrimped and plaited so close around her face that very little of the\nlatter was visible. In this guise was Nanny, toiling hard and singing\nher mournful ditty, when Katharine came in and placed herself on a seat\nby her side.\n\n\"Nanny, this seems to be more than ordinary a busy day with you; pray,\nwhat is all this baking and boiling for?\"\n\n\"Dear bairn, dear bairn, what do I ken--the like o' me maun do as we're\nbidden--guests are coming, my bairn--O, ay--there's mony a braw an'\nbonny lad coming this way--mony a ane that will gaur a young thing's\ne'en stand i' back water--\n\n    \"They are coming! they are coming!\n      Alak! an' wae's me!\n    Though the sword be in the hand,\n      Yet the tear's in the e'e.\n\n    Is there blood in the moorlands\n      Where the wild burnies rin?\n    Or what gars the water\n      Wind reid down the lin?\n\n    O billy, dear billy,\n      Your boding let be,\n    For it's nought but the reid lift\n      That dazzles your e'e.\"\n\n\"Prithee go on, Nanny; let me hear what it was that reddened the water?\"\n\n\"Dear bairn, wha kens; some auld thing an' out o' date; but yet it is\nsae like the days that we hae seen, ane wad think the poeter that made\nit had the second sight. Mony a water as weel as the Clyde has run reid\nwi' blude, an' that no sae lang sin' syne!--ay, an' the wild burnies\ntoo! I hae seen them mysel leave a reid strip on the sand an' the grey\nstanes--but the hoody craw durstna pick there!--Dear bairn, has the\nChapelhope burn itsel never had the hue?\"\n\nHere Katharine's glance and Nanny's met each other, but were as quickly\nwithdrawn, for they dreaded one another's converse; but they were soon\nrelieved from that dilemma by Nanny's melancholy chime--\n\n    \"In yon green houm there sat a knight,--\n      An' the book lay open on his knee,\n    An' he laid his hand on his rusty sword.\n      An' turned to Heaven his watery e'e.\n\n    But in yon houm there is a kirk,\n      An' in that kirk there is a pew,\n    An' in that pew there sat a king,\n      Wha signed the deed we maun ever rue.\n\n    He wasna king o' fair Scotland,\n      Though king o' Scotland he should hae been,--\n    And he lookit north to the land he loved,\n      But aye the green leaves fell atween.\n\n    The green leaves fell, an' the river swell'd.\n      An' the brigg was guardit to the key;\n    O, ever alak! said Hamilton\n      That sic a day I should ever see!\n\n    As ever ye saw the rain down fa',\n      Or yet the arrow gae from the bow--\n\n\"No, that's not it--my memory is gane wi' my last warldly hope--Hech!\ndear bairn, but it is a sad warld to live in, without hope or love for\nony that's in't--I had aye some hope till now! but sic a dream as I had\nlast night!--I saw him aince again--Yes, I saw him bodily, or may I\nnever steer aff this bit.\"--Here Nanny sobbed hard, and drew her arms\nacross her eyes.--\"Come, come,\" continued she, \"gie me a bit sang, dear\nbairn, an' let it be an auld thing--they do ane's heart gude thae bits\no' auld sangs.\"\n\n\"Rather tell me, Nanny--for we live in ignorance in this wild\nplace--what you think of all that blude that has been shed in our\ncountry since the killing-time began? Do you think it has been lawfully\nand rightfully shed?\"\n\n\"Wha doubts it, dear bairn?--Wha doubts that?--But it will soon be ower\nnow--the traitors will soon be a' strappit and strung--ay, ay--the last\no' them will soon be hackit and hewed, an' his bloody head stannin ower\nthe Wast Port--an' there will be braw days than--we'll be a' right\nthan.\"\n\nKatharine sat silent and thoughtful, eyeing old Nanny with fixed\nattention; but the muscles of her contracted face and wild unstable eye\nwere unintelligible. She therefore, with a desponding mien, went out,\nand left the crazy dame to discourse and sing to herself. Nanny ceased\nher baking, stood upright, and listened to the maid's departing steps,\ntill judging her out of hearing; she then sung out, in what is now\ntermed the true _bravura_ style,\n\n    \"Then shall the black gown flap\n      O'er desk and true man;\n    Then shall the horny cap\n      Shine like the new moon;\n    An' the kist fu' o' whistles\n      That maks sic a cleary,\n    Lool away, bool away,\n      Till we grow weary.\n            Till we grow weary, &c.\n\n    Charlie, the cypher-man,\n      Drink till ye stew dame;\n    Jamie, the wafer-man,\n      Eat till ye spue them;\n    Lauderdale lick-my-fud,\n      Binny and Geordie,\n    Leish away, link away.\n      Hell is afore ye.\n            Hell is afore ye, &c.\n\n    Graeme will gang ower the brink,\n      Down wi' a flaughter;\n    Lagg an' Drumlandrick\n      Will soon follow after;\n    Johnston and Lithgow,\n      Bruce and Macleary,\n    Scowder their harigalds,\n      Deils, wi' a bleery.\n            Till ye grow weary,\" &c.\n\nIn the mean time, Katharine, on hearing the loud notes of the song, had\nreturned within the door to listen, and heard the most part of the lines\nand names distinctly. She had heard it once before, and the singer\nreported it to be a new song, and the composition of a young man who had\nafterwards been executed in the Grass-Market. How Nanny came to sing\nsuch a song, with so much seeming zest, after the violent prelatic\nprinciples which she had so lately avowed, the maid could not well\ncomprehend, and she began to suspect that there was more in Nanny's mind\nthan had yet been made manifest. Struck with this thought, and\nruminating upon it, she continued standing in the same position, and\nheard Nanny sometimes crooning, and at other times talking rapidly and\nfervently to herself. After much incoherent matter, lines of psalms, &c.\nKatharine heard with astonishment the following questions and answers,\nin which two distinct voices were imitated:--\n\n\"Were you at the meeting of the traitors at Lanark on the 12th of\nJanuary?\"\n\n\"I never was amang traitors that I was certain of till this day--Let\nthem take that! bloody fruesome beasts.\"\n\n\"Were you at Lanark on that day?\"\n\n\"If you had been there you would have seen.\"\n\n\"D--n the old b--! Burn her with matches--squeeze her with pincers as\nlong as there's a whole piece of her together--then throw her into\nprison, and let her lie till she rot--the old wrinkled hag of h--! Good\nwoman, I pity you; you shall yet go free if you will tell us where you\nlast saw Hamilton and your own goodman.\"\n\n\"Ye sall hing me up by the tongue first, and cut me a' in collops while\nI'm hingin.\"\n\n\"Burn her in the cheek, cut baith her lugs out, and let her gae to h--\nher own way.\"\n\nAfter this strange soliloquy, the speaker sobbed aloud, spoke in a\nsuppressed voice for some time, and then began a strain so sweet and\nmelancholy, that it thrilled the hearer, and made her tremble where she\nstood. The tune was something like the Broom of Cowdenknows, the\nsweetest and most plaintive of the ancient Scottish airs; but it was\nsung so slow, as to bear with it a kind of solemnity.\n\n    \"The kye are rowting in the lone,\n      The ewes bleat on the brae,\n    O, what can ail my auld gudeman,\n      He bides sae lang away!\n\n    An' aye the Robin sang by the wud,\n      An' his note had a waesome fa';\n    An' the corbie croupit in the clud,\n      But he durstna light ava;\n\n    Till out cam the wee grey moudiwort\n      Frae neath the hollow stane,\n    An' it howkit a grave for the auld grey head,\n      For the head lay a' its lane!\n\n    But I will seek out the Robin's nest,\n      An' the nest of the ouzel shy,\n    For the siller hair that is beddit there\n      Maun wave aboon the sky.\"\n\nThe sentiments of old Nanny appeared now to her young mistress to be\nmore doubtful than ever. Fain would she have interpreted them to be such\nas she wished, but the path which that young female was now obliged to\ntread required a circumspection beyond her experience and discernment\nto preserve, while danger and death awaited the slightest deviation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nNext morning Clavers, with fifty dragoons, arrived at Chapelhope, where\nthey alighted on the green; and putting their horses to forage, he and\nSir Thomas Livingston, Captain Bruce, and Mr Adam Copland, before\nmentioned, a gentleman of Clavers' own troop, went straight into the\nkitchen. Walter was absent at the hill. The goodwife was sitting lonely\nin the east room, brooding over her trials and woes in this life, and\ndevising means to get rid of her daughter, and with her of all the\ndevouring spirits that haunted Chapelhope; consequently the first and\nonly person whom the gentlemen found in the kitchen was old Nanny.\nClavers, who entered first, kept a shy and sullen distance, for he never\nwas familiar with any one; but Bruce, who was a jocular Irish\ngentleman, and well versed in harassing and inveigling the ignorant\ncountry people to their destruction, made two low bows (almost to the\nground) to the astonished dame, and accosted her as follows: \"How are\nyou to-day, mistress?--I hope you are very well?\"\n\n\"Thank ye kindly, sir,\" said Nanny, curtseying in return; \"deed I'm no\nsae weel as I hae been; I hae e'en seen better days; but I keep aye the\nheart aboon, although the achings and the stitches hae been sair on me\nthe year.\"\n\n\"Lack-a-day! I am so very sorry for that!--Where do they seize you?\nabout the heart, I suppose?--Oh, dear soul! to be sure you do not know\nhow sorry I am for your case--it must be so terribly bad! You should\nhave the goodness to consult your physician, and get blood let.\"\n\n\"Dear bairn, I hae nae blude to spare--an' as for doctors, I haena\nmuckle to lippen to them. To be sure, they are whiles the means, under\nProvidence\"----\n\n\"Oho!\" said he, putting his finger to his nose, and turning to his\nassociates with a wry face,--\"Oho! the means under Providence!--a d--d\nwhig, by ----. Tell me, my dear and beautiful Mistress Stitchaback, do\nyou really believe in that blessed thing, Providence?\"\n\n\"Do I believe in Providence!--Did ever ony body hear sic a question as\nthat? Gae away, ye muckle gouk--d'ye think to make a fool of a puir\nbody?\"\n\nSo saying, she gave him a hearty slap on the cheek; at which his\ncompanions laughing, Bruce became somewhat nettled, and, drawing out his\nsword, he pointed at the recent stains of blood upon it. \"Be so good as\nto look here, my good lady,\" said he, \"and take very good note of all\nthat I say, and more; for harkee, you must either renounce Providence,\nand all that I bid you renounce,--and you must, beside that, answer all\nthe questions that I shall ever be after asking,--or, do you see, I am a\ngreat doctor--this is my very elegant lance--and I'll draw the blood\nthat shall soon ease you of all your stitches and pains.\"\n\n\"I dinna like your fleem ava, man--'tis rather ower grit for an auld\nbody's veins. But ye're surely some silly skemp of a fallow, to draw out\nyour sword on a puir auld woman. Dinna think, howanabee, that I care for\nouther you or it. I'll let ye see how little I mind ye; for weel I ken\nyour comrades wadna let ye fash me, e'en though ye were sae silly as to\noffer. Na, na; d'ye ever think that little bonny demure-looking lad\nthere wad suffer ye to hurt a woman?--I wat wad he no! He has mair\ndiscreation in his little finger than you hae i' your hale bouk.--Now\ntry me, master doctor--I'll nouther renounce ae thing that ye bid me,\nnor answer ae question that ye speer at me.\"\n\n\"In the first place, then, my good hearty dame, do you acknowledge or\nrenounce the Covenant?\"\n\n\"Aha! he's wise wha wats that, an' as daft that speers.\"\n\n\"Ay, or no, in a moment--No juggling with me, old Mrs Skinflint.\"\n\n\"I'll tell ye what ye do, master--if ony body speer at ye, gin auld\nNanny i' the Chapelhope renounces the Covenant, shake your head an' say\nye dinna ken.\"\n\n\"And pray, my very beautiful girl, what do you keep this old tattered\nbook for?\"\n\n\"For a fancy to gar fools speer, an' ye're the first--Come on now, sir,\nwi' your catechis--Wally-dye man! gin ye be nae better a fighter than\nye're an examiner, ye may gie up the craft.\"\n\nBruce here bit his lip, and looked so stern that Nanny, with a\nhysterical laugh, ran away from him, and took shelter behind Clavers.\n\n\"You are a d--d fool, Bruce,\" said he, \"and constantly blundering.--Our\nbusiness here, mistress, is to discover, if possible, who were the\nmurderers of an honest curate, and some of our own soldiers that were\nslain in this neighbourhood while discharging their duty; if you can\ngive us any information on that subject, you shall be well rewarded.\"\n\n\"Ye'll hear about the curate, sir--ye'll hear about him--he was found\nout to be a warlock, and shot dead.--But ah, dear bairn! nane alive can\ngie you information about the soldiers!--It was nae human hand did that\ndeed, and there was nae e'e out o' heaven saw it done--There wasna a man\nthat day in a' the Hope up an' down--that deed will never be fund out,\nunless a spirit rise frae the dead an' tell o't--Muckle fear, an' muckle\ngrief it has been the cause o' here!--But the men war a' decently\nburied; what mair could be done?\"\n\n\"Do you say that my men were all decently buried?\"\n\n\"Ay, troth, I wat weel, worthy sir, and wi' the burial-service too.--My\nmaster and mistress are strong king's folk.\"\n\n\"So you are not the mistress of this house?\"\n\n\"A bonny like mistress I wad be, forsooth--Na, na, my mistress is sittin\nbe hersel ben the house there.\" With that, Nanny fell a working and\nsinging full loud--\n\n    \"Little wats she wha's coming,\n    Little wats she wha's coming,\n    Strath and Correy's ta'en the bent,\n    An' Ferriden an' a's coming;\n    Knock and Craigen Sha's coming,\n    Keppoch an' Macraw's coming,\n    Clan-Mackinnon's ower the Kyle,\n    An' Donald Gun an' a's coming.\"\n\nAnxious now to explore the rest of the house, they left Nanny singing\nher song, and entered the little parlour hastily, where, finding no one,\nand dreading that some escape might be effected, Clavers and Livingston\nburst into the Old Room, and Bruce and Copland into the other. In the\nOld Room they found the beautiful witch Katharine, with the train of her\nsnow-white joup drawn over her head, who looked as if taken in some evil\nact by surprise, and greatly confounded when she saw two gentlemen\nenter her sanctuary in splendid uniforms. As they approached, she made a\nslight curtsey, to which they deigned no return; but going straight up\nto her, Clavers seized her by both wrists. \"And is it, indeed, true,\"\nsaid he, \"my beautiful shepherdess, that we have caught you at your\nprayers so early this morning?\"\n\n\"And what if you have, sir?\" returned she.\n\n\"Why, nothing at all, save that I earnestly desire, and long exceedingly\nto join with you in your devotional exercises,\" laying hold of her in\nthe rudest manner.\n\nKatharine screamed so loud that in an instant old Nanny was at their\nside, with revenge gleaming from her half-shaded eyes, and heaving over\nher shoulder a large green-kale gully, with which she would doubtless\nhave silenced the renowned Dundee for ever, had not Livingston sprung\nforward with the utmost celerity, and caught her arm just as the stroke\nwas descending. But Nanny did not spare her voice; she lifted it up\nwith shouts on high, and never suffered one yell to lose hearing of\nanother.\n\nWalter, having just then returned from the hill, and hearing the hideous\nuproar in the Old Room, rushed into it forthwith to see what was the\nmatter. Katharine was just sinking, when her father entered, within the\ngrasp of the gentle and virtuous Clavers. The backs of both the knights\nwere towards Walter as he came in, and they were so engaged amid bustle\nand din that neither of them perceived him, until he was close at their\nbacks. He was at least a foot taller than any of them, and nearly as\nwide round the chest as them both. In one moment his immense fingers\ngrasped both their slender necks, almost meeting behind each of their\nwindpipes. They were rendered powerless at once--they attempted no more\nstruggling with the women, for so completely had Walter's gripes\nunnerved them, that they could scarcely lift their arms from their\nsides; neither could they articulate a word, or utter any other sound\nthan a kind of choaked gasping for breath. Walter wheeled them about to\nthe light, and looked alternately at each of them, without quitting or\neven slackening his hold.\n\n\"Callants, wha ir ye ava?--or what's the meanin' o' a' this unmencefu'\nrampaging?\"\n\nSir Thomas gave his name in a hoarse and broken voice; but Clavers,\nwhose nape Walter's right hand embraced, and whose rudeness to his\ndaughter had set his mountain-blood a-boiling, could not answer a word.\nWalter, slackening his hold somewhat, waited for an answer, but none\ncoming--\n\n\"Wha ir ye, I say, ye bit useless weazel-blawn like urf that ye're?\"\n\nThe haughty and insolent Clavers was stung with rage; but seeing no\nimmediate redress was to be had, he endeavoured to pronounce his dreaded\nname, but it was in a whisper scarcely audible, and stuck in his\nthroat--\"Jo--o--o Graham,\" said he.\n\n\"Jock Graham do they ca' ye?--Ye're but an unmannerly whalp, man. And\nye're baith king's officers too!--Weel, I'll tell ye what it is, my\ndenty clever callants; if it warna for the blood that's i' your master's\nveins, I wad nite your twa bits o' pows thegither.\"\n\nHe then threw them from him; the one the one way, and the other the\nother, and lifting his huge oak staff, he strode out at the door,\nsaying, as he left them,--\"Hech! are free men to be guidit this\ngate--I'll step down to the green to your commander, an' tell him what\nkind o' chaps he keeps about him to send into fock's houses.--Dirty\nunmensefu' things!\"\n\nClavers soon recovering his breath, and being ready to burst with rage\nand indignation, fell a cursing and fuming most violently; but Sir T.\nLivingston could scarcely refrain from breaking out into a convulsion\nof laughter. Clavers had already determined upon ample revenge, for the\nviolation of all the tender ties of nature was his delight, and wherever\nthere was wealth to be obtained, or a private pique to be revenged,\nthere never was wanting sufficient pretext in those days for cutting off\nindividuals, or whole families, as it suited. On the very day previous\nto that, the Earl of Traquair had complained, in company with Clavers\nand his officers, of a tenant of his, in a place called Bald, who would\nneither cultivate his farm nor give it up. Captain Bruce asked if he\nprayed in his family? The Earl answered jocularly, that he believed he\ndid nothing else. Bruce said that was enough; and the matter passed over\nwithout any farther notice. But next morning, Bruce went out with four\ndragoons, and shot the farmer as he was going out to his work. Instances\nof this kind are numerous, if either history or tradition can be in\naught believed; but in all the annals of that age, there is scarcely a\nsingle instance recorded of any redress having been granted to the\nharassed country people for injuries received. At this time, the word of\nArgyle's rising had already spread, and Clavers actually traversed the\ncountry more like an exterminating angel, than a commander of a\ncivilized army.\n\nSuch were the men with whom Walter had to do; and the worst thing of\nall, he was not aware of it. He had heard of such things, but he did not\nbelieve them; for he loved his king and country, and there was nothing\nthat vexed him more than hearing of aught to their disparagement; but\nunluckily his notions of freedom and justice were far above what the\nsubjects of that reign could count upon.\n\nWhen Clavers and Livingstone entered the Old Room, it will be remembered\nthat Bruce and Copland penetrated into the other. There they found the\ngoodwife of Chapelhope, neatly dressed in her old-fashioned style, and\nreading on her Bible, an exercise in which she gloried, and of which she\nwas very proud.\n\nBruce instantly desired her \"to lay that very comely and precious book\non the hottest place of all the beautiful fire, that was burning so\npleasantly with long crackling peat; and that then he would converse\nwith her about things that were, to be sure, of far greater and mightier\nimportance.\"\n\n\"Hout, dear sir, ye ken that's no consistent wi' natural reason--Can any\nthing be o' greater importance than the tidings o' grace an' salvation,\nan' the joys o' heaven?\"\n\n\"Oho!\" cried Bruce, and straddled around the room with his face turned\nto the joists.--\"My dear Copland, did you ever hear such a thing in all\nthe days that ever you have to live? Upon my soul, the old woman is\ntalking of grace, and salvation, and the joys of heaven too, by Saint\nG--! My dearest honey and darling, will you be so kind as stand up upon\nthe soles of your feet, and let me see what kind of a figure you will be\nin heaven. Now, by the cross of Saint Patrick, I would take a journey\nthere to see you go swimming through Heaven in that same form, with\nyour long waist, and plaitted quoif, and that same charming face of\nyours. Och! och! me! what a vile she whig we have got in this here\ncorner!--Copland, my dear soul, I foresee that all the ewes and kine of\nChapelhope will soon be rouped at the cross of Selkirk, and then what\nblessed lawings we shall have! Now my dear mistress Grace, you must be\nafter renouncing the joys of heaven immediately; for upon my honour, the\nvery sight of your face would spoil the joys of any place whatever, and\nthe first thing you must do is to lay that delightful old book with the\nbeautiful margin along the side of it, on the coals; but before you do\nthat we shall sing to his praise and glory from the 7th verse of the\n149th psalm.\"\n\nHe then laid aside his helmet and sung the psalm, giving out each line\nwith a whine that was truly ludicrous, after which he put the Bible into\nthe goodwife's hand, and desired her, in a serious tone, instantly to\nlay it on the fire. The captain's speech to his companions about the\newes and kine of Chapelhope was not altogether lost on the conscience of\nMaron Linton. It was not, as she afterwards said, like water spilt upon\nthe ground, which cannot be gathered up again. \"Why, dear sir,\" said\nshe, \"ye ken, after a', that the beuk's naething but paper an' ink, an'\nthree shillings an' aughtpence will buy as gude a ane frae Geordy\nDabson, the morn, an' if there be ony sin in't, it will lye at your\ndoor, an' no at mine. I'll ne'er haigel wi' my king's officer about\nthree and aughtpence.\"\n\nSo saying, Maron laid the Bible on the fire, which soon consumed it to\nashes.\n\n\"Now, may the devil take me,\" said Bruce, \"if I do not believe that you\nare a true woman after all, and if so, my purse is lighter by one half\nthan it was; but, my dear honey, you have the very individual and\ngenuine seeds of whiggism in your constitution--You have, I will swear,\nbeen at many a harmless and innocent conventicle.\"\n\n\"Ye ken little about me, sir.--Gude forbid that ever I countenanced sic\ntraitors to the kirk and state!\"\n\n\"Amen! say I; but I prophecy and say unto thee, that the first\nfield-meeting into which thou goest in the beauty of holiness, thou\nshalt be established for ever with thy one foot in Dan and the other in\nBeersheba, and shalt return to thy respective place of abode as rank a\nwhig as ever swung in the Grass-Market.\"\n\nA long dialogue next ensued, in which the murder of the priest, Mass\nJohn Binram, was discussed at full length, and by which Bruce and\nCopland discerned, that superstitious as Maron was, she told them what\nshe deemed to be the truth, though in a strange round-about way. Just as\nthey were beginning to talk over the mysterious murder of the soldiers,\nClaverhouse and Sir Thomas joined them, and Bruce, turning round to\nthem, said, \"My lord, this very honest woman assures me, that she\nbelieves the two principal murderers of the curate are lying concealed\nin a linn not far hence, and there seems to be little doubt but that\nthey must likewise have been concerned in the murder of our soldiers.\"\n\nClavers, the horrors of whose execrations are yet fresh in the memory of\nour peasants, burst out as follows, to the astonishment of Bruce, who\nwas not aware of his chagrin, or of aught having befallen him.\n\n\"May the devil confound and d--n them to hell!--May he make a brander of\ntheir ribs to roast their souls on!\"\n\nMaron Linton, hearing herself called a good woman, and finding that she\nwas approven of, could not refrain from interfering here.\n\n\"Dear sir, my lord, ye sudna swear that gate, for it's unco ill-faur'd\nye ken--an' at ony rate, the deil canna damn naebody--if ye will swear,\nswear sense.\"\n\nThe rage of the general, and the simplicity of the goodwife, was such an\namusing contrast, that the three attendants laughed aloud. Clavers\nturned his deep grey eye upon them, which more than the eye of any human\nbeing resembled that of a serpent--offence gleamed in it.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, \"do you consider where you are, and what you are\nabout? Sacre! am I always to be trysted with boys and fools?\"\n\nHe then began and examined the goodwife with much feigned deference and\ncivility, which so pleased her that she told him every thing with great\nreadiness. She was just beginning to relate the terrible, but\nunfortunate story of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, and his train of officious\nspirits; of the meat which they devoured, and in all probability would\nhave ended the relation with the woeful connection between the Brownie\nand her daughter, and the part that she had taken in the murder of the\nsoldiers, when Walter entered the room with a discomposed mien, and gave\na new turn to the conversation. But that eventful scene must be left to\nthe next chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nWalter, on coming to the troopers and asking for their leader, soon\ndiscovered how roughly he had treated Clavers; and it being so much the\nreverse of the reception he meant to have given him, he was particularly\nvexed about it. Still he was conscious that he had done nothing that was\nwrong, nor any thing that it did not behove a parent and a master of a\nfamily to have done in the same circumstances; therefore there was\nnothing farther from his intention than offering any apology. He entered\nhis own room, as he supposed he had a good right to do, bluntly enough.\nHe indeed touched the rim of his bonnet as he came in; but, seeing all\nthe officers covered, he stalked into the midst of them with that\nimmense circle of blue woollen on his head, which moved over their\nhelmets like a black cloud as he advanced. Bruce, who was well used to\ninsult the peasantry with impunity, seeing Walter striding majestically\nby his general in this guise, with his wonted forwardness and jocularity\nlifted up his sword, sheathed as it was, and with the point of it kicked\noff Walter's bonnet. The latter caught it again as it fell, and with his\nfist, he made Bruce's helmet ring against the wall; then again fitting\non his bonnet, he gave him such an indignant and reproving look, that\nBruce, having no encouragement from the eye of Clavers, resented it no\nfarther than by saying good-humouredly, \"'Pon my body and shoul, but the\ncarle keeps his good-looking head high enough.\"\n\n\"Copland,\" said Clavers, \"desire Serjeant Daniel Roy Macpherson, with\neleven troopers, to attend.\" They were instantly at the door. \"Seize\nand pinion that haughty rebel, together with all his family,\" said he,\n\"and then go and search every corner, chest, and closet in the house;\nfor it is apparent that this is the nest and rendezvous of the murdering\nfanatics who infest this country. Let the rest of the soldiers guard the\npremises, that none escape to the mountains with tidings of our arrival.\nThis good dame we will first examine privately, and then dispose of her\nas shall seem most meet.\"\n\nThe command was promptly obeyed. Walter and all his family were taken\ninto custody, pinioned, and a guard set on them; the house was\nransacked; and in the meantime the general and his three associates\ncontinued the examination of the goodwife. Clavers observed that, on the\nentrance of Walter before, she seemed to be laid under some restraint,\nstopped short in her narration, and said, \"But there's the gudeman;\nhe'll tell ye it wi' mair preceesion nor me;\" and he had no doubt, if\nshe were left to herself, of worming as much out of her as would\ncondemn her husband, or at least furnish a pretext sufficient for the\nforfeiture of his wealth. Clavers had caused to be sold, by public roup,\nthe whole stock on the farm of Phillhope, which belonged to Walter's\nbrother-in-law, merely because it was proven that the farmer's wife had\nonce been at a conventicle.\n\nIn the present instance, however, Clavers was mistaken, and fairly\novershot his mark; for poor Maron Linton was so overwhelmed with\nastonishment when she saw her husband and family taken prisoners and\nbound, that her speech lost all manner of coherence. She sobbed\naloud--complained one while, entreated another; and then muttered over\nsome ill-sorted phrases from the Scripture. When Clavers pressed his\nquestions, she answered him, weeping, \"O dear sir, my lord, ye ken I\ncanna do naething, nor think naething, nor answer naething, unless ye\nlet Watie loose again; I find as I war naebody, nor nae soul, nor\nnaething ava wantin' him, but just like a vacation or a shadow. O my\nlord, set my twa bits o' callants an' my puir auld man loose again, and\nI'll say ony thing that ever ye like.\"\n\nThreats and proffers proved alike in vain. Maron's mind, which\nnever was strong, had been of late so much unhinged by the terrors of\nsuperstition, that it wavered in its frail tenement like \"the baseless\nfabric of a vision,\" threatening to depart, and leave not a wreck\nbehind. Clavers told her that her husband's life depended on the\npromptness and sincerity of her answers, he having rendered himself\namenable to justice by rescuing his daughter by force, whom they had\ntaken prisoner on their arrival, having found her engaged in a very\nsuspicious employment. This only increased Maron's agony; and at length\nClavers was obliged to give up the point, and ordered her into custody.\n\nThe soldiers had by this time taken old John of the Muchrah and another\nof Laidlaw's shepherds prisoners, who had come to assist their master\nwith the farm-work that day. All these Clavers examined separately; and\ntheir answers, as taken down in short-hand by Mr Adam Copland, are still\nextant, and at present in my possession. The following are some of them,\nas decyphered by Mr J. W. Robertson, whose acquaintance with ancient\nmanuscripts is well known.\n\nJohn Hay, shepherd in Muchrah, aged fifty-six, sworn and examined.\n\n\"Do you know such a man as the Rev. James Renwick?\"\n\n\"Yes. I once heard him pray and preach for about the space of two\nhours.\"\n\n\"Was it on your master's farm that he preached?\"\n\n\"No, it was in a linn on the Earl Hill, in the march between two lairds'\nlands, that he preached that day.\"\n\n\"How durst you go to an unlawful conventicle?\"\n\n\"I didna ken there was a law against it till after--it's a wild place\nthis--we never hear ony o' the news, unless it be twice a-year frae the\nMoffat fairs. But as soon as I heard him praying and preaching against\nthe king I cam aff an' left him, an' brought a' my lads an' lasses wi'\nme; but my wife wadna steer her fit--there she sat, shaking her head and\nglooming at me; but I trow I cowed her for't after.\"\n\n\"What did he say of the king?\"\n\n\"O, I canna mind--he said nae muckle gude o' him.\"\n\n\"Did he say that he was a bloody perjured tyrant?\"\n\n\"Ay, he said muckle waur nor that. He said some gayan ill-farr'd things\nabout him. But I cam away and left him; I thought he was saying mair\nthan gude manners warrantit.\"\n\n\"Were you in the Hope, as you call it; on that day that the king's\nsoldiers were slain?\"\n\n\"Ay, that I was; I was the first wha came on them whan they war just\nnew dead, an' a' reeking i' their warm blude--Gude keep us a' frae sic\nsights again!--for my part, I never gat sic a confoundit gliff sin' I\nwas born o' my mother.\"\n\n\"Describe the place where the corpses were lying.\"\n\n\"It is a deep cleuch, wi' a sma' sheep rodding through the linn not a\nfoot wide; and if ye war to stite aff that, ye wad gang to the boddom o'\nthe linn wi' a flaip.\"\n\n\"Were the bodies then lying in the bottom of that linn?\"\n\n\"Odd help ye, whar could they be lying else?--D'ye think they could lie\non the Cleuch-brae? Ye might as weel think to lie on the side o' that\nwa' gin ye war dead.\"\n\n\"How did it appear to you that they had been slain--were they cut with\nswords, or pierced with bullets?\"\n\n\"I canna say, but they war sair hashed.\"\n\n\"How do you mean when you say they were hashed?\"\n\n\"Champit like--a' broozled and jurmummled, as it war.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that they were cut, or cloven, or minced?\"\n\n\"Na, na--no that ava--But they had gotten some sair doofs--They had been\nterribly paikit and daddit wi' something.\"\n\n\"I do not in the least conceive what you mean.\"\n\n\"That's extrordnar, man--can ye no understand folk's\nmother-tongue?--I'll mak it plain to you. Ye see, whan a thing comes on\nye that gate, that's a dadd--sit still now. Then a paik, that's a swapp\nor a skelp like--when a thing comes on ye that way, that's a paik. But a\ndoof's warst ava--it's\"----\n\n\"Prithee hold; I now understand it all perfectly well.--What, then, is\nyour opinion with regard to these men's death? How, or what way do you\nthink they were killed?\"\n\n\"O, sir, there's naebody can say. It was some extrordnar judgment,\nthat's out of a' doubt. There had been an unyerdly raid i' the Hope that\nday.\"\n\n\"What reason have you for supposing such a thing?\"\n\n\"Because there wasna a leevin soul i' the hale Hope that day but\ntheirsels--they wadna surely hae felled ane another--It's, by an'\nattour, an awsome bit where they war killed; there hae been things baith\nseen and heard about it; and I saw an apparition there mysel on the very\nnight before.\"\n\n\"You saw an apparition at the place the night before, did you? And,\npray, what was that apparition like?\"\n\n\"It was like a man and a woman.\"\n\n\"Had the figure of the woman no resemblance to any one you had ever seen\nbefore? Was it in any degree, for instance, like your master's\ndaughter?\"\n\n\"No unlike ava.\"\n\n\"Then I think I can guess what the other form was like--Had it a bonnet\non its head?\"\n\n\"Not a bonnet certainly, but it had the shape o' ane.\"\n\n\"I weened as much--And was it a tall gigantic figure?\"\n\n\"Na, na, sir; the very contrair o' that.\"\n\n\"Are you certain of that you say? Was it not taller than the apparition\nof the woman?\"\n\n\"No half sae tall, sir.\"\n\n\"Had it not some slight resemblance to your master, little as it was?\nDid that not strike you?\"\n\n\"Na, na, it was naething like my master, nor nae yerdly creature that\never was seen; indeed it was nae creature ava.\"\n\n\"What then do you suppose it was?\"\n\n\"Lord kens!--A wraith, I hae little doubt. My een rins a' wi' water whan\nI think about it yet.\"\n\n\"Wraiths are quite common here, are they?\"\n\n\"O yes, sir!--oure common. They appear aye afore death, especially if\nthe death be to be sudden.\"\n\n\"And what are they generally like?\"\n\n\"Sometimes like a light--sometimes like a windin-sheet--sometimes like\nthe body that's to dee, gaen mad--and sometimes like a coffin made o'\nmoon-light.\"\n\n\"Was it in the evening you saw this apparition?\"\n\n\"It was a little after midnight.\"\n\n\"And pray, what might be your business in such a place at that untimely\nhour?--Explain that fully to me if you please.\"\n\n\"I sall do that, sir, as weel as I can:--Our ewes, ye see, lie up in\nthe twa Grains an' the Middle a' the harst--Now, the Quave Brae again,\nit's our hogg-fence, that's the hained grund like; and whenever the wind\ngangs easterly about, then whan the auld luckies rise i' the howe o' the\nnight to get their rug, aff they come, snouckin a' the way to the Lang\nBank, an' the tither end o' them round the Piper Snout, and into the\nQuave Brae to the hained grund; an' very often they think naething o'\nlanding i' the mids o' the corn. Now I never mindit the corn sae muckle;\nbut for them to gang wi' the hogg-fence, I coudna bide that ava; for ye\nken, sir, how coud we turn our hand wi' our pickle hoggs i' winter if\ntheir bit foggage war a' riven up by the auld raikin hypalts ere ever a\nsmeary's clute clattered on't?\"\n\nThough Clavers was generally of an impatient temper, and loathed the\nsimplicity of nature, yet he could not help smiling at this elucidation,\nwhich was much the same to him as if it had been delivered in the\nlanguage of the Moguls; but seeing the shepherd perfectly sincere, he\nsuffered him to go on to the end.\n\n\"Now, sir, ye ken the wind very often taks a swee away round to the\neast i' the night-time whan the wather's gude i' the harst months, an'\nwhanever this was the case, and the moon i' the lift, I had e'en aye\nobliged to rise at midnight, and gang round the hill an' stop the auld\nkimmers--very little did the turn--just a bit thraw yont the brae, an'\nthey kend my whistle, or my tike's bark, as weel as I did mysel, still\nthey wadna do wantin't. Weel, ye see, sir, I gets up an' gangs to the\ndoor--it was a bonny night--the moon was hingin o'er the derk brows o'\nHopertoody, an' the lang black scaddaws had an eiry look--I turned my\nneb the tither gate, an' I fand the air was gane to the eissel; the\nse'en starns had gaen oure the lum, an' the tail o' the king's elwand\nwas just pointin to the Muchrah Crags. It's the very time, quo' I to\nmysel, I needna think about lying down again--I maun leave Janet to lie\ndoverin by hersel for an hour or twa--Keilder, my fine dog, where are\nye?--He was as ready as me--he likes a play i' the night-time brawly,\nfor he's aye gettin a broostle at a hare, or a tod, or a foumart, or\nsome o' thae beasts that gang snaikin about i' the derk. Sae to mak a\nlang tale short, sir, off we sets, Keilder an' me, an' soon comes to the\nplace. The ewes had been very mensefu' that night, they had just comed\nto the march and nae farther; sae, I says, puir things, sin' ye hae been\nsae leifu', we'll sit down an' rest a while, the dog an' me, an' let ye\ntak a pluck an' fill yersels or we turn ye back up to your cauld\nlairs again. Sae down we sits i' the scaddaw of a bit derksome\ncleuch-brae--naebody could hae seen us; and ere ever I wats, I hears by\nthe grumblin o' my friend, that he outher saw or smelled something mair\nthan ordinar. I took him in aneath my plaid for fear o' some grit\nbrainyell of an outbrik; and whan I lookit, there was a white thing and\na black thing new risen out o' the solid yird! They cam close by me; and\nwhan I saw the moon shinin on their cauld white faces, I lost my sight\nan' swarfed clean away. Wae be to them for droichs, or ghaists, or\nwhatever they war, for aye sin' syne the hogg-fence o' the Quave Brae\nhas been harried an' traisselled till its little better nor a drift\nroad--I darna gang an' stop the ewes now for the saul that's i' my bouk,\nan' little do I wat what's to come o' the hoggs the year.\"\n\n\"Well now, you have explained this much I believe to your own\nsatisfaction--Remember then, you are upon oath--Who do you think it was\nthat killed these men?\"\n\n\"I think it was outher God or the deil, but whilk o' them, I coudna\nsay.\"\n\n\"And this is really your opinion?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is.\"\n\n\"Have you seen any strangers about your master's house of late?\"\n\n\"I saw one not long ago.\"\n\n\"What sort of a man was he?\"\n\n\"A douse-looking man wi' a brown yaud; I took him for some wool-buyer.\"\n\n\"Was he not rather like a preacher?\"\n\n\"The man might hae preached for aught contrair till't in his\nappearance--I coudna say.\"\n\n\"Are you certain it was not Mr Renwick?\"\n\n\"I am certain.\"\n\n\"Is your master a very religious man?\"\n\n\"He's weel eneugh that way--No that very reithe on't; but the gudewife\nhauds his neb right sair to the grindstane about it.\"\n\n\"Does he perform family worship?\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"Is he reckoned a great and exemplary performer of that duty?\"\n\n\"Na, he's nae great gun, I trow; but he warstles away at it as weel as\nhe can.\"\n\n\"Can you repeat any part, or any particular passage of his usual\nprayer?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I might, for he gangs often aneuch oure some o' them. Let me\nsee--there's the still waters, and the green pastures, and the blood of\nbulls and of goats; and then there's the gos-hawk, and the slogy riddle,\nand the tyrant an' his lang neb; I hae the maist o't i' my head, but\nthen I canna mouband it.\"\n\n\"What does he mean by the tyrant and his long neb?\"\n\n\"Aha! But that's mair nor ever I could find out yet. We whiles think he\nmeans the Kelpy--him that raises the storms an' the floods on us, ye\nken, and gars the waters an' the burns come roarin down wi' bracks o'\nice an' snaw, an' tak away our sheep. But whether it's Kelpy, or\nClavers, or the Deil, we can never be sure, for we think it applies gay\nan' weel to them a'.\"\n\n\"Repeat the passage as well as you can.\"\n\n\"Bring down the tyrant an' his lang neb, for he has done muckle ill this\nyear, and gie him a cup o' thy wrath; an' gin he winna tak that, gie him\nkelty.\"\n\n\"What is meant by kelty?\"\n\n\"That's double--it means twa cups--ony body kens that.\"\n\n\"Does he ever mention the king in his prayer?\"\n\n\"O yes: always.\"\n\n\"What does he say about him?\"\n\n\"Something about the sceptre of righteousness, and the standard of\ntruth. I ken he has some rhyme about him.\"\n\n\"Indeed! And does he likewise make mention of the Covenant?\"\n\n\"Ay, that's after--that's near the end, just afore the resurrection. O\nyes, he harls aye in the Covenant there. 'The bond o' the everlasting\nCovenant,' as he ca's it, weel ordered in all things, and sure.\"\n\n\"Ay, that's very well; that's quite sufficient. Now, you have yourself\nconfessed, that you were at an unlawful and abominable conventicle,\nholding fellowship with intercommuned rebels, along with your wife and\nfamily. You _must_ be made an example of to the snarling and rebellious\nhounds that are lurking in these bounds; but as you have answered me\nwith candour, though I might order you instantly to be shot, I will be\nso indulgent as to give you your choice, whether you will go to prison\nin Edinburgh, and be there tried by the Council, or submit to the\njudgment which I may pronounce on you here?\"\n\n\"O, sir, I canna win to Edinbrough at no rate--that's impossible. What\nthink ye wad come o' the sheep? The hogg-fence o' the Quave Brae is\nmaistly ruined already; and war I to gae to the prison at Edinbrough, it\nwad be mair loss than a' that I'm worth. I maun just lippen to yoursel;\nbut ye maunna be very sair on me. I never did ony ill designedly; and as\nfor ony rebellion against the Bruce's blood, I wad be hangit or I wad\nthink o' sic a thing.\"\n\n\"Take the old ignorant animal away--Burn him on the cheek, cut off his\nears, and do not part with him till he pay you down a fine of two\nhundred merks, or value to that amount. And, do you hear, make him take\nall the oaths twice; and a third oath, that he is never to repent of\nthese. By G--; if either Monmouth or Argyle get him, they shall have a\nperjured dog of him.\"\n\nAs John was dragged off to this punishment, which was executed without\nany mitigation, he shook his head and said, \"Ah, lak-a day! I fear\nthings are muckle waur wi' us than I had ony notion o'! I trowed aye\nthat even down truth an' honesty bure some respect till now--I fear our\ncountry's a' wrang thegither.\"--Then looking back to Clavers, he added,\n\"Gude-sooth, lad, but ye'll mak mae whigs wherever ye show your face,\nthan a' the hill preachers o' Scotland put thegither.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nIt has been remarked by all the historians of that period, that the\nproceedings of Clavers about this time were severe in the extreme. The\nrising, both in the north and south at the same time, rendered the\nsituation of affairs somewhat ticklish. Still the Lowlands were then\nperfectly peaceable; but he seemed determined, lest he should be called\naway, to destroy the Covenanters, and all that hankered after civil and\nreligious liberty, root and branch. Certainly his behaviour at\nChapelhope that morning, was sufficient to stamp his character for ever\nin that district, where it is still held in at least as great\ndetestation as that of the arch-fiend himself.\n\nWhen the soldiers, by his order, seized and manacled Walter, he\nprotested vehemently against such outrage, and urged the general to\nprove his fidelity to his sovereign by administering to him the test\noath, and the oath of abjuration; but this Clavers declined, and said to\nhim, with a sneer, that \"they had other ways of trying dogs beside\nthat.\"\n\nWhen those who had been appointed to search the house came before him,\nand gave in their report, among other things, they said they had found\nas much bread new baked, and mutton newly cooked, as would be a\nreasonable allowance for an hundred men for at least one whole day.\nClavers remarked, that in a family so few in number, this was proof\npositive that others were supported from that house. \"But we shall\ndisappoint the whigs of one hearty meal,\" added he; and with that he\nordered the meat to be brought all out and set down upon the green--bid\nhis troopers eat as much as they could--feed their horses with the\nbread which they left, and either destroy the remainder of the victuals\nor carry them away.\n\nIt was in vain that Walter told him the honest truth, that the food was\nprovided solely for himself and his soldiers, as he knew they were to\ncome by that road, either on that day or the one following; nay, though\nall the family avouched it, as they well might, he only remarked, with a\nlook of the utmost malignity, that \"he never in his life knew a whig who\nhad not a d--d lie ready on his tongue, or some kind of equivocation to\nsave his stinking life, but that they must necessarily all be taught who\nthey were dealing with.\" He then made them all swear that they were to\ntell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and to utter\nthe most horrid imprecations on themselves and their souls for ever, if\nthey deviated in one single item; and beginning with old John, as\nbefore related, he examined them all separately and out of hearing of\none another.\n\nThe interrogations and answers are much too long to be inserted here at\nfull length; but the only new circumstances that came to light were\nthese two. One of the young men deponed, that, when the bodies of the\nsoldiers were found in the Hope, their muskets were all loaded, which\nshowed that they had not fallen in a regular skirmish; and the other boy\nswore, that he had lately seen eighty large thick bannocks baked in one\nday in his father's house, for that he had counted them three times over\nas they stood cooling. This was another suspicious circumstance, and\nClavers determined to search it to the bottom. He sifted the two youths\nbackward and forward, trying to get the secret out of them by every wile\nin his power; and because they were unable to give him any satisfactory\naccount who consumed all that store of bread, he caused his dragoons to\ntake hold of the youngest and gird his head with a cord, twisting it\nwith a horse pistol, until in some places it cut him to the skull. The\neldest he hung up to the beam by the thumbs until he fainted through\ninsufferable pain; but he could get nothing more out of them, for they\nhad at first told him all that they knew, being quite unconscious of any\nevil.\n\nStill bent, as it seemed, on the full conviction and ruin of the family,\nhe told the boys that they were two of the most consummate knaves and\nrebels that he had in all his life seen; and that if they had any hopes\nat all of going to Heaven, they should say their prayers, for in a few\nminutes he would order them both to be shot.\n\nJohn, the eldest, who possessed a good deal of his mother's feebleness\nof character, and was besides but newly recovered from a fainting fit,\nwas seized with a stupor, appeared quite passive, and acted precisely as\nthey bade him, without seeming to know what he did; but the youngest,\nwhose name was William, preserved an interesting firmness, in such a\ntrial, for a considerable time. On being advised by Clavers to tell all\nhe knew rather than die, and asked if he was not afraid of death? He\nanswered, with the tear in his eye, \"I'm nouther feared for you nor\ndeath, man. I think if fock may be guidit this way at their ain hames,\nthe sooner they're dead the better.\" Then turning his looks to his\nbrother, who kneeled according to the general's order on the green\nbeside him, he added, with convulsive sobs, \"But poor Jock's gaun to be\nshot too--I wonder what ye need kill him for?--What ill hae we ever done\nt'ye?--Jock's a very good callant--I canna pray weel, but if ye'll let\nmy billy Jock gang, I'll pray for ye as I can, and kiss ye too.\"\n\nHappy was it for the wits of poor Maron that she saw nothing of this\ntouching scene; she, as well as Walter, being then with the rest under a\nstrong guard in the Old Room. Clavers paid no regard to the kneeling\nboy's request. He caused his troopers to draw up around them, present\ntheir firelocks, and then an executioner, who was always one of his\ntrain, tied up both their eyes. He gave the word himself, and instantly\nten or twelve carabines were discharged on them at once. John fell flat\non the earth; but William, with a violent start, sprung to his feet,\nand, being blindfolded, ran straight on the files of soldiers.\n\nClavers laid hold of him. \"My brave little fellow,\" said he, \"the\nsoldiers have all missed you, bungling beasts that they are! and since\nso wonderful a thing hath befallen, you shall yet have your life, though\na most notorious rebel, if you will tell me what people frequent your\nfather's house.\"\n\n\"What's comed o' Jock?\" said the boy, \"O tell me what's comed o' Jock,\nfor I canna see.\"\n\n\"Jock is lying dead on the green there, all bathed in his blood,\" said\nClavers; \"poor wretch! it is over with him, and unless you instantly\ntell me who it was that consumed all that store of bread that has been\nbaked in your father's house for the last month, you must be sent after\nhim.\"\n\nWilliam withdrew backward a few paces, and kneeling a second time down\non the sward with great decency and deliberation, \"Shoot again,\" said\nhe; \"try me aince mair; an' O see to airch a wee better this time. I wad\nrather dee a hunder times, or I saw poor Jock lying a bloody corp.\"\n\nClavers made a sign to one of his dragoons, who unbound William, and\ntook the bandage from his eyes. Regardless of all else, he looked wildly\naround in search of his brother, and seeing his only companion lying\nflat on his face, he at first turned away, as if wishing to escape from\na scene so dismal; but his helpless and forlorn situation staring him in\nthe face, and the idea doubtless recurring that he was never to part\nwith his brother, but forthwith to be slaughtered and carried to the\ngrave with him, he returned, went slowly up to the body, kneeled down\nbeside it, and pulling the napkin farther down over the face to keep the\ndead features from view, he clasped his arms about his brother's neck,\nlaid his cheek to his, and wept bitterly.\n\nThe narrator of this part of the tale was wont to say, that the scene\nwhich followed had something more touching in it than any tongue could\ndescribe, although Clavers and his troops only laughed at it. William\nhad now quite relinquished all sensations of fear or danger, and gave\nfull vent to a flood of passionate tenderness and despair. He clasped\nhis brother's neck closer and closer, steeped his cheek with his tears,\nand seemed to cling and grow to the body with a miserable fondness.\nWhile he was giving full scope in this manner to the affections of his\nyoung heart, his brother made a heave up with his head and shoulder,\nsaying at the same time, like one wakening from a dream, \"Little Will,\nis that you?--Haud aff--What ails ye?\"\n\nWilliam raised up his head,--fixed his eyes on vacancy,--the tears\ndried on his cheek, and his ruby lips were wide open,--the thing was\nbeyond his comprehension, and never was seen a more beautiful statue of\namazement. He durst not turn his eyes towards his brother, but he\nuttered in words scarcely articulate, \"Lord! I believe they hae missed\nJock too!\"\n\nClavers had given private orders to his dragoons to fire over the heads\nof the two boys, his intent being to intimidate them so much as to\neradicate every principle of firmness and power of concealment from\ntheir tender minds; a scheme of his own fertile invention, and one which\nhe often practised upon young people with too sure effect. When William\nfound that his brother was really alive, and that both of them were to\nbe spared on condition that he gave up the names and marks of all the\npeople that had of late been at Chapelhope; he set himself with great\nearnestness to recount them, along with every mark by which he\nremembered them, determined that every hidden thing should be brought to\nlight, rather than that poor Jock should be shot at again.\n\n\"Weel, ye see, first there was Geordie Skin-him-alive the flesher, him\nthat took away the crocks and the paulies, and my brockit-lamb, and gae\nme a penny for setting him through atween the lochs. Then there was\nHector Kennedy the tinkler, him that the bogles brought and laid down at\nthe door i' the night-time--he suppit twa bickerfu's o' paritch, an'\ncleekit out a hantle o' geds an' perches wi' his toum. Then there was\nNed Huddersfield the woo-man, wi' the leather bags and the skeenzie\nthread--him that kissed our bire-woman i' the barn in spite o' her\nteeth,--he had red cheeks and grit thees, and wasna unlike a glutton; he\nmisca'd my father's woo, an' said aye, 'Nay, it's nane clean,\nhowsomever,--it's useless, that's its warst fault.' Then there was wee\nWillie the nout herd, him that had the gude knife an' the duddy breeks;\nbut the Brownie's put him daft, an' his mither had to come an' tak him\naway upon a cuddy.\"\n\nIn this manner went he on particularizing every one he remembered, till\nfairly cut short with a curse. John continued perfectly stupid, and when\nexamined, answered only _Yes_, or _No_, as their way of asking the\nquestion dictated.\n\n\"Are there not great numbers of people who frequent your father's house\nduring the night?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Do you see and hear them, after you go to bed?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What are they generally employed in when you hear them? Do they read,\nand pray, and sing psalms?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Do your father and mother always join them?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHere William could restrain himself no longer. \"Gude faith, Jock, man,\"\nsaid he, \"ye're just telling a hirsel o' eindown lees. It canna be lees\nthat the man wants, for that maks him nae the wiser; an' for you to say\nthat my father rises to pray i' the night-time, beats a', when ye ken my\nmither has baith to fleitch an' fight or she can get him eggit on till't\ni' the Sabbath e'enings. He's ower glad to get it foughten decently by,\nto rise an' fa' till't again. O fye, Jock! I wad stand by the truth;\nan', at ony rate, no just gaung to hell open mouth.\"\n\nWhen the volley of musketry went off, all the prisoners started and\nstared on one another; even the hundred veterans that guarded them\nappeared by their looks to be wholly at a loss. Macpherson alone\nventured any remark on it. \"Pe Cot's life, fat she pe pluff pluffing at\nnow? May the teal more pe her soul's salvation, if she do not believe te\nman's pe gone out of all reason.\"\n\nThe women screamed; and Maron, whose tongue was a mere pendulum to the\nworkings of the heart within, went on sighing and praying; asking\nquestions, and answering them alternately; and at every pause, looked\nearnestly to her husband, who leaned against the corner of the room,\nashamed that his bound hands should be seen.\n\n\"Och! Aigh me!\" cried Maron,--\"Dear sirs, what's the fock shootin\nat?--Eh?--I'm sure they hae nae battlers to fight wi' there?--No ane--I\nwat, no ane. Aigh now, sirs! the lives o' God's creatures!--They never\nshoot nae callants, do they? Oh, na, na, they'll never shoot innocent\nbairns, puir things! They'll maybe hae been trying how weel they could\nvizy at the wild ducks; there's a hantle o' cleckins about the saughs o'\nthe lake. Hout ay, that's a'.--He hasna forgotten to be gracious, nor is\nhis mercy clean gane.\"\n\nThus poor Maron went on, and though she had but little discernment left,\nshe perceived that there was a tint of indignant madness in her\nhusband's looks. His lips quivered--his eyes dilated--and the wrinkles\non his brow rolled up to the roots of his dark grizzled hair, \"Watie,\"\ncried she, in a shrill and tremulous voice--\"Watie, what ails ye--Oh!\ntell me what ails ye, Watie?--What's the fock shooting at? Eh? Ye'll no\ntell me what they're shooting at, Watie?--Oh, oh, oh, oh!\"\n\nWalter uttered no word, nor did his daughter, who sat in dumb\nastonishment, with her head almost bent to her feet; but old Nanny\njoined in full chorus with her mistress, and a wild unearthly strain the\ncouple raised, till checked by Serjeant Roy Macpherson.\n\n\"Cot's curse be t--ning you to te everlasting teal! fat too-whooing pe\ntat? Do you think that should the lenoch beg pe shot trou te poty, tat\nis te son to yourself? Do you tink, you will too-whoo him up\nakain?--Hay--Cot tamn, pe holding your paice.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nUpon the whole, there was no proof against Walter. Presumption was\nagainst him, but the evidence was rather in his favour. Military law,\nhowever, prevailed; and he found that there was no redress to be had of\nany grievance or insult, that this petty tyrant, in his caprice, thought\nfit to inflict. His drivers were ordered to take the whole stock from\nthe farms of Kirkinhope, belonging to David Bryden, who lived at a\ndistance, because it was proven, that Mr Renwick had preached and\nbaptized some children on the bounds of that farm. That stock he caused\nto be taken to Selkirk, and sent orders to the sheriff to sell it by\npublic roup, at the cross, to the highest bidder; but with Walter's\nstock he did not meddle at that time; so far did justice mark his\nproceedings. He strongly suspected him, and wished to have him\nconvicted; and certainly would have taken all the family with him\nprisoners, had not the curate-clerk arrived at that critical time. Him\nClavers consulted apart, and was soon given to understand the steadfast\nloyalty of the gudewife, daughter, and all the family, save Walter,\nwhom, he said, he suspected of a secret connivance with the Cameronians.\nThis was merely to serve a selfish purpose, for the clerk suspected no\nsuch thing at that time. It had the desired effect. Clavers set all the\nrest of the family free, but took the good man with him prisoner; put\ntwo of his best horses in requisition; mounted himself on a diminutive\nponey, with the thumbikins on his hands, and his feet chained below its\nbelly. In this degrading situation, he was put under the care of\nSerjeant Roy Macpherson and five troopers; and Clavers, with the rest\nof his company, hasted, with great privacy and celerity, into that\ninhospitable wild, which forms the boundary between Drummelzier and the\nJohnstons of Annandale. The greater part of the fugitives had taken\nshelter there at that time, it being the most inaccessible part in the\nsouth of Scotland, and that where, of all others, they had been the\nleast troubled. No troops could subsist near them; and all that the\nmilitary could do was to set watches near every pass to and from these\nmountains, where a few stragglers were killed, but not many in\nproportion to the numbers that had there sought a retreat.\n\nThe Covenanters knew that Clavers would make a sweeping and\nexterminating circuit about that time--incidents which were not to be\noverlooked, had been paving the way for it--incidents with which the\nmain body of that people were totally unconnected. But it was usual at\nthat time, and a very unfair practice it was, that whatever was said,\nor perpetrated, by any intemperate fanatical individual, or any crazy\nwight, driven half mad by ill usage--whatever was said or done by such,\nwas always attributed to the whole sect as a body. It is too true that\nthe Privy Council chose, invariably, men void of all feeling or remorse\nto lead these troops. A man had nothing to study but to be cruel enough\nto rise in the army in those days; yet, because there was a Dalziel, a\nGraham, a Creighton, and a Bruce among the king's troops, it would be\nunfair to suppose all the rest as void of every principle of feeling and\nforbearance as they. In like manner, because some of the Covenanters\nsaid violent and culpable things, and did worse, it is hard to blame the\nwhole body for these; for, in the scattered prowling way in which they\nwere driven to subsist, they had no controul over individuals.\n\nThey had been looking for the soldiers' appearing there for several\ndays, and that same morning had been on the watch; but the day was now\nso far advanced that they were waxen remiss, and had retired to their\ndens and hiding-places. Besides, he came so suddenly upon them, that\nsome parties, as well as several stragglers, were instantly discovered.\nA most determined pursuit ensued, Clavers exerted himself that day in\nsuch a manner, gallopping over precipices, and cheering on his dragoons,\nthat all the country people who beheld him believed him to be a devil,\nor at least mounted on one. The marks of that infernal courser's feet\nare shewn to this day on a steep, nearly perpendicular, below the Bubbly\nCraig, along which he is said to have ridden at full speed, in order to\nkeep sight of a party of the flying Covenanters. At another place,\ncalled the Blue Sklidder, on the Merk side, he had far outrode all his\nofficers and dragoons in the pursuit of five men, who fled straggling\nathwart the steep. He had discharged both his pistols without effect;\nand just as he was making ready to cleave down the hindmost with his\nsabre, he was attacked by another party, who rolled huge stones at him\nfrom the precipice above, and obliged him to make a hasty retreat.\n\nTradition has preserved the whole of his route that day with the utmost\nminuteness. It is not easy to account for this. These minute traditions\nare generally founded on truth; yet though two generations have scarcely\npassed away since the date of this tale,[A] tradition, in this instance,\nrelates things impossible, else Clavers must indeed have been one of the\ninfernals. Often has the present relater of this tale stood over the\ndeep green marks of that courser's hoof, many of which remain on that\nhill, in awe and astonishment, to think that he was actually looking at\nthe traces made by the devil's foot, or at least by a horse that once\nbelonged to him.\n\nFive men were slain that day; but as they were all westland men, very\nlittle is known concerning them. One of them was shot at a distance by\nsome dragoons who were in pursuit of him, just as he was entering a\nmorass, where he would certainly have escaped them. He is buried on a\nplace called the Watch Knowe, a little to the south-east of Loch Skene,\nbeside a cairn where he had often sat keeping watch for the approach of\nenemies, from which circumstance the height derived its name. When he\nfell, it being rough broken ground, they turned and rode off without\never going up to the body. Four were surprised and taken prisoners on a\nheight called Ker-Cleuch-Ridge, who were brought to Clavers and shortly\nexamined on a little crook in the Erne Cleuch, a little above the old\nsteading at Hopertoudy.\n\nMacpherson kept the high road, such as it was, with his prisoner; but\ntravelled no faster than just to keep up with the parties that were\nscouring the hills on each side; and seeing these unfortunate men hunted\nin from the hill, he rode up with his companions and charge to see the\nissue, remarking to Walter, that \"he woolt not pe much creat deal te\nworse of scheeing fwat te Cot t--n'd fwigs would pe getting.\"\n\nHow did Walter's heart smite him when he saw that one of them was the\nsensible, judicious, and honourable fellow with whom he fought, and\nwhose arm he had dislocated by a blow with his stick! It was still\nhanging in a sling made of a double rash rope.\n\nThey would renounce nothing, confess nothing, nor yield, in the\nslightest degree, to the threats and insulting questions put by the\ngeneral. They expected no mercy, and they cringed for none; but seemed\nall the while to regard him with pity and contempt. Walter often said\nthat he was an ill judge of the cause for which these men suffered; but\nwhatever might be said of it, they were heroes in that cause. Their\ncomplexions were sallow, and bore marks of famine and other privations;\ntheir beards untrimmed; their apparel all in rags, and their hats\nslouched down about their ears with sleeping on the hills. All this they\nhad borne with resignation and without a murmur; and, when brought to\nthe last, before the most remorseless of the human race, they shewed no\nsymptoms of flinching or yielding up an item of the cause they had\nespoused.\n\nWhen asked \"if they would pray for the king?\"\n\nThey answered, \"that they would with all their hearts;--they would pray\nfor his forgiveness, in time and place convenient, but not when every\nprofligate bade them, which were a loathful scurrility, and a mockery of\nGod.\"\n\n\"Would they acknowledge him as their right and lawful sovereign?\"\n\n\"No, that they would never do! He was a bloody and designing papist,\nand had usurped a prerogative that belonged not to him. To acknowledge\nthe Duke of York for king, would be to acknowledge the divine\napprobation of tyranny, oppression, usurpation, and all that militates\nagainst religion or liberty, as well as justifying the abrogation of our\nancient law relating to the succession; and that, besides, he had\ntrampled on every civil and religious right, and was no king for\nScotland, or any land where the inhabitants did not chuse the most\nabject and degrading slavery. For their parts, they would never\nacknowledge him; and though it was but little that their protestations\nand their blood could avail, they gave them freely. They had but few\nleft to mourn for them, and these few might never know of their fate;\nbut there was _One_ who knew their hearts, who saw their sufferings, and\nin Him they trusted that the days of tyranny and oppression were wearing\nto a close, and that a race yet to come might acknowledge that they had\nnot shed their blood in vain.\"\n\nClavers ordered them all to be shot. They craved time to pray, but he\nobjected, sullenly alleging, that he had not time to spare. Mr Copland\nsaid,--\"My lord, you had better grant the poor wretches that small\nindulgence.\" On which Clavers took out his watch, and said he would\ngrant them two minutes, provided they did not howl. When the man with\nthe hurt arm turned round to kneel, Walter could not help crying out to\nhim in a voice half stifled with agony--\n\n\"Ah! lak-a-day, man! is it come to this with you, and that so soon? This\nis a sad sight!\"\n\nThe man pretended to put on a strange and astonished look towards his\nbenefactor.\n\n\"Whoever you are,\" said he, \"that pities the sufferings of a hapless\nstranger, I thank you. May God requite you! but think of yourself, and\napply for mercy where it is to be found, for you are in the hands of\nthose whose boast it is to despise it.\"\n\nWalter at first thought this was strange, but he soon perceived the\npolicy of it, and wondered at his friend's readiness at such an awful\nhour, when any acknowledgment of connection would have been so fatal to\nhimself. They kneeled all down, clasped their hands together, turned\ntheir faces to Heaven, and prayed in a scarce audible whisper. Captain\nBruce, in the mean time, kneeled behind the files, and prayed in\nmockery, making a long face, wiping his eyes, and speaking in such a\nludicrous whine, that it was impossible for the gravest face to retain\nits muscles unaltered. He had more to attend to him than the miserable\nsufferers. When the two minutes were expired, Clavers, who held his\nwatch all the time, made a sign to the dragoons who were drawn up,\nwithout giving any intimation to the sufferers, which, perhaps, was\nmerciful, and in a moment all the four were launched into eternity.\n\nThe soldiers, for what reason Walter never understood, stretched the\nbodies all in a straight line on the brae, with their faces upwards, and\nabout a yard distant from one another, and then rode off as fast as they\ncould to get another hunt, as they called it. These four men were\nafterwards carried by the fugitives, and some country people, and\ndecently interred in Ettrick church-yard. Their graves are all in a row\na few paces from the south-west corner of the present church. The\ngoodman of Chapelhope, some years thereafter, erected a head-stone over\nthe grave of the unfortunate sufferer whose arm he had broken, which,\nwith its rude sculpture, is to be seen to this day. His name was Walter\nBiggar. A small heap of stones is raised on the place where they were\nshot.\n\nThe last look which Walter took of the four corpses, as they lay\nstretched on the brae, with the blood streaming from them, had nearly\nturned his brain. His heart sunk within him. For years and days they\nnever left his mind's eye, sleeping nor waking. He always thought he saw\nthem lying on the green sloping brae, with their pale visages, blue open\nlips, clasped hands, and dim stedfast eyes still fixed on the Heavens.\nHe had heard Clavers and his officers called heroes: He wished those who\nbelieved so had been there that day to have judged who were the greatest\nheroes.\n\n\"There! let them take that!\" said Captain Bruce, as he mounted his\nhorse.\n\n\"Poor misled unfortunate beings!\" said Copland, and mounted his.\n\n\"Huh! Cot t--n!\" said Roy Macpherson, in a voice that seemed to struggle\nfor an outlet; and Walter, to his astonishment, saw a tear glistening on\nhis rough weather-beaten cheek, as he turned to ride away!\n\nThe pursuit continued unabated for the whole of that day. There was a\ngreat deal of firing, but the hills of Polmoody were inaccessible to\ncavalry. There was no more blood shed. They lodged that night at a place\ncalled Kippelgill, where they put every thing in requisition about the\nhouse, and killed some of the cattle. Clavers was in extremely bad\nhumour, and Walter had no doubt that he once intended to have sacrificed\nhim that night, but seemed to change his mind, after having again\nexamined him. He was very stern, and threatened him with the torture,\nswearing that he knew him to be the supporter of that nest of miscreants\nthat harboured around him, and that though he should keep him prisoner\nfor a dozen years, he would have it proven on him. Walter made oath that\nthere had never one of them been within his door, consistent with his\nknowledge; that he had never been at a conventicle; and proffered to\ntake the test, and oath of abjuration, if allowed to do so. All this\nwould not satisfy Clavers. Walter said he wondered at his discernment,\nfor, without the least evil or disloyal intent, he found he had rendered\nhimself liable to punishment, but how he could be aware of that he knew\nnot.\n\nThat night Walter was confined in a cow-house, under the same guard that\nhad conducted him from Chapelhope. The soldiers put his arms round one\nof the stakes for the cattle, and then screwed on the thumbikins, so\nthat he was fastened to the stake without being much incommoded. When\nMacpherson came in at a late hour, (for he was obliged likewise to take\nup his abode in the cow-house over night), the first word he said was,--\n\n\"Cot t--n, she no pe liking to schee an honest shentleman tied up to a\nstake, as she were peing a poollock.\"\n\nHe then began to lecture Walter on the magnitude of folly it would be in\nhim to run away, \"when he took it into consideration that he had a ponny\nfhamily, and sheeps, and horses, and bheasts, that would all pe maide\nacchountable.\"\n\nWalter acknowledged the force of his reasoning; said it was sterling\ncommon sense, and that nothing would induce him to attempt such a\ndangerous experiment as attempting to make his escape. Macpherson then\nloosed him altogether, and conversed with him until he fell asleep.\nWalter asked him, what he thought of his case with the general?\nMacpherson shook his head. Walter said there was not the shadow of a\nproof against him!\n\n\"No!\" said Macpherson; \"py cot's curse but there is! There is very much\ndeal of proof. Was not there my countrymen and scholdiers murdered on\nyour grhounds? Was not there mhore scoans, and prochin, and muttons in\nyour house, than would have peen eaten in a mhonth by the fhamily that\npelongs to yourself. By the pode more of the auld deal, but there is\nmore proof than would hang twenty poor peheoples.\"\n\n\"That's but sma' comfort, man! But what think ye I should do?\"\n\n\"Cot t--n, if I know!--Who is it that is your Chief?\"\n\n\"Chief!--What's that?\"\n\n\"Tat is te head of te clan--Te pig man of your name and fhamily.\"\n\n\"In troth, man, an' there isna ane o' my name aboon mysel.\"\n\n\"Fwat? Cot's everlasting plissing! are you te chief of te clan,\nM'Leadle? Then, sir, you are a shentleman indeed. Though your clan\nshould pe never so poor, you are a shentleman; and you must pe giving me\nyour hand; and you need not think any shame to pe giving me your hand;\nfor hersel pe a shentleman pred and porn, and furst coosin to Cluny\nMacpherson's sister-in-law. Who te deal dha more she pe this clan,\nM'Leadle? She must be of Macleane. She ance pe prhother to ourselves,\nbut fell into great dishunity by the preaking off of Finlay Gorm More\nMachalabin Macleane of Ilanterach and Ardnamurchan.\"\n\nWalter having thus set Daniel Roy Macpherson on the top of his\nhobby-horse by chance, there was no end of the matter! He went on with\ngenealogies of uncouth names, and spoke of some old free-booters as the\ngreatest of all kings. Walter had no means of stopping him, but by\npretending to fall asleep, and when Macpherson weened that no one was\nlistening farther to him, he gave up the theme, turned himself over, and\nuttered some fervent sentences in Gaelic, with heavy moans between.\n\n\"What's that you are saying now,\" said Walter, pretending to rouse\nhimself up.\n\n\"Pe sad works this,\" said he. \"Huh! Cot in heaven aye! Hersel would be\nfighting te Campbells, sword in hand, for every inch of the Moor of\nRhanoch; but Cot t--n, if she like to pe pluffing and shooting through\nte podies of te poor helpless insignificant crheatures. T--n'd foolish\nignorant peheople! Cot t--n, if she pe having the good sense and\nprhudence of a bheast.\"\n\nWalter commended his feeling, and again asked his advice with regard to\nhis own conduct.\n\n\"Who is te great man tat is te laird to yourself?\" asked he.\n\n\"Mr Hay of Drumelzier,\" was answered.\n\n\"Then lose not a mhoment in getting his very good report or security.\nAll goes by that. It will do more ghood than any stock of innocence; and\nyou had need to look very sharp, else he may soon cut you short. It's a\nvery good and a very kind man, but she pe caring no more for the lives\nof peoples, tan I would do for as many ptarmigans.\"\n\nWalter pondered on this hint throughout the night; and the more he did\nso the more he was convinced, that, as the affairs of the country were\nthen conducted, Macpherson's advice was of the first utility. He sent\nfor one of the shepherds of Kippelgill next morning, charged him with an\nexpress to his family, and unable to do any thing further for himself,\nsubmitted patiently to his fate.\n\nClavers having been informed that night that some great conventicles had\nbeen held to the southward, he arose early, crossed the mountains by the\nPennera Corse, and entered that district of the south called Eskdale.\nHe had run short of ammunition by the way, and knowing of no other\nsupply, dispatched Bruce with 20 men by the way of Ettrick, to plunder\nthe aisle where the ancient and noble family of the Scotts of Thirlstane\nwere enshrined in massy leaden chests. From these he cut the lids, and\notherwise damaged them, scattering the bones about in the aisle; but the\nScotts of Daventon shortly after gathered up the relics of their\nancestors, which they again deposited in the chests,--closed them up\nwith wooden lids, and buried them deep under the aisle floor, that they\nmight no more be discomposed by the hand of wanton depravity.\n\nAt a place called the Steps of Glenderg, Clavers met with Sir James\nJohnston of Westeraw, with fifty armed men, who gave him an exaggerated\naccount of the district of Eskdale, telling him of such and such\nfield-meetings, and what inflammatory discourses had there been\ndelivered, insinuating all the while that the whole dale ought to be\nmade an example of. Clavers rejoiced in his heart at this, for the works\nof devastation and destruction were beginning to wear short. The\nCovenanters were now so sorely reduced, that scarcely durst one show his\nface, unless it were to the moon and stars of Heaven. A striking\ninstance of this I may here relate by the way, as it happened on the\nvery day to which my tale has conducted me.\n\nA poor wanderer, named, I think, Matthew Douglas, had skulked about\nthese mountains, chiefly in a wild glen, called the Caldron, ever since\nthe battle of Bothwell-bridge. He had made several narrow, and, as he\nthought, most providential escapes, but was at length quite overcome by\nfamine, cold, and watching; and finding his end approaching, he crept by\nnight into a poor widow's house at Kennelburn, whose name, if my\ninformer is not mistaken, was Ann Hyslop. Ann was not a Cameronian, but\nbeing of a gentle and humane disposition, she received the dying man\nkindly--watched, and even wept over him, administering to all his wants.\nBut the vital springs of life were exhausted and dried up: He died on\nthe second day after his arrival, and was buried with great privacy, by\nnight, in the church-yard at Westerkirk.\n\nSir James Johnston had been a zealous Covenanter, and at first refused\nthe test with great indignation; but seeing the dangerous ground on\nwhich he stood and that his hand was on the lion's mane, he renounced\nthese principles; and, to render his apostacy effective, became for a\ntime a most violent distresser of his former friends. He knew at this\ntime that Clavers was coming round; and in order to ingratiate himself\nwith him, he had for several days been raging up and down the country\nlike a roaring lion, as they termed it. It came to his ears what Ann\nHyslop had done; whereon, pretending great rage, he went with his party\nto the burial ground, digged the body out of the grave, and threw it\nover the church-yard wall for beasts of prey to devour. Forthwith he\nproceeded to Kennelburn--plundered the house of Ann Hyslop, and then\nburnt it to ashes; but herself he could not find, for she had previously\nabsconded. Proceeding to the boundary of the county, he met and welcomed\nClavers to his assistance, breathing nothing but revenge against all\nnon-conformists, and those of his own district in particular.\n\nClavers knew mankind well. He perceived the moving cause of all this,\nand did not appear so forward and hearty in the business as Sir James\nexpected. He resolved to ravage Eskdale, but to manage matters so that\nthe whole blame might fall on Johnston. This he effected so completely,\nthat he made that knight to be detested there as long as he lived, and\nhis memory to be abhorred after his decease. He found him forward in the\ncause; and still the more so that he appeared to be, the more shy and\nbackward was Clavers, appearing to consent to every thing with\nreluctance. They condemned the stocks of sheep on Fingland and the\nCasways on very shallow grounds. Clavers proposed to spare them; but Sir\nJames swore that they should not be spared, that their owners might\nlearn the value of conventicles.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Clavers, \"since you will have it so, let them be\ndriven off.\"\n\nIn this manner they proceeded down that unhappy dale, and at Craikhaugh,\nby sheer accident, lighted on Andrew Hyslop, son to the widow of\nKennelburn above-mentioned. Johnston apprehended him, cursed,\nthreatened, and gnashed his teeth on him with perfect rage. He was a\nbeautiful youth, only nineteen years of age. On his examination, it\nappeared that he had not been at home, nor had any hand in sheltering\nthe deceased; but he knew, he said, that his mother had done so, and in\ndoing it, had done well; and he was satisfied that act of her's would be\napproven of in the eye of the Almighty.\n\nClavers asked, \"Have you ever attended the field conventicles?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Have you ever preached yourself?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Do you think that you could preach?\"\n\n\"I am sure I could not.\"\n\n\"I'll be d--d but you can pray then,\" said he.\n\nHe then proffered him his liberty if he would confess that his mother\nhad done wrong, but this he would in no wise do; for, he said, it would\nbe a sinful and shameful lie, he being convinced that his mother had\ndone what was her duty, and the duty of every Christian to do towards\nhis fellow-creatures.\n\nJohnston swore he should be shot. Clavers hesitated, and made some\nobjections; but the other persisting, as Clavers knew he would, the\nlatter consented, as formerly, saying, \"Well, well, since you will have\nit so, let it be done--his blood be on your head, I am free of\nit.--Daniel Roy Macpherson, draw up your file, and put the sentence in\nexecution.\"\n\nHyslop kneeled down. They bade him put on his bonnet, and draw it over\nhis eyes; but this he calmly refused, saying, \"He had done nothing of\nwhich he was ashamed, and could look on his murderers and to Heaven\nwithout dismay.\"\n\nWhen Macpherson heard this, and looked at him as he kneeled on the\nground with his hands pinioned, his beautiful young face turned toward\nthe sky, and his long fair ringlets hanging waving backward, his heart\nmelted within him, and the great tears had for sometime been hopping\ndown his cheeks. When Clavers gave the word of command to shoot the\nyouth, Macpherson drew up his men in a moment--wheeled them off at the\nside--presented arms--and then answered the order of the general as\nfollows, in a voice that was quite choaked one while, and came forth in\ngreat vollies at another--\"Now, Cot t--n--sh--sh--she'll rather pe\nfighting Clavers and all her draghoons, pe--pe--pefore she'll pe killing\ntat dear good lhad.\"\n\nCaptain Bruce burst out into a horse-laugh, leaping and clapping his\nhands on hearing such a singular reply; even Clavers had much ado to\nsuppress a smile, which, however, he effected by uttering a horrible\ncurse.\n\n\"I had forgot, Sir James,\" said he; \"Macpherson is as brave a man as\never strode on a field of battle; but in domestic concerns, he has the\nheart of a chicken.\"\n\nHe then ordered four of his own guards to shoot him, which they executed\nin a moment. Some of his acquaintances being present, they requested\npermission of Clavers to bury him, which he readily granted, and he was\ninterred on the very spot where he fell. A grave stone was afterwards\nerected over him, which is still to be seen at Craikhaugh, near the side\nof the road, a little to the north of the Church of Eskdale-muir.\n\nClavers and his prisoner lodged at Westeraw that night. Johnston wanted\nto have him shot; but to this Clavers objected, though rather in a\njocular manner.\n\nWalter said, he was sure if Sir James had repeated his request another\ntime, that Clavers' answer would have been, \"Well, well, since you will\nhave it so,\" &c.; but, fortunately for Walter, he desisted just in time.\n\nThese two redoubted champions continued their progress all next day; and\non the third, at evening, Clavers crossed Dryfe, with nine thousand\nsheep, three hundred goats, and about as many cattle and horses, in his\ntrain, taken from the people of Eskdale alone. He took care to herry Sir\nJames's tenants, in particular, of every thing they possessed, and\napparently all by their laird's desire, so that very little of the blame\nattached to the general. He was heard to say to Sir Thomas Livingston\nthat night, \"I trow, we hae left the silly turn-coat a pirn to\nwind.\"--But we must now leave them to continue their route of rapine\nand devastation, and return to the distressed family of Chapelhope, in\norder that we may watch the doings of the Brownie of Bodsbeck.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[A] One of the women baptized in the Linn of Riskinhope by Renwick that\nyear, has several children yet alive, not very aged people.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nFor all Maron Linton's grievous distresses, the arrival of Clerk, the\ncurate, proved an antidote of no small avail. It was a great comfort to\nher, in the midst of her afflictions; and after she had been assured by\nhim of Walter's perfect safety, she became apparently more happy, and\ncertainly more loquacious, than she had been for a great while byegone.\nShe disclosed to him the dreadful secret, that her child was possessed\nof an evil spirit, and implored his influence with Heaven, and his power\nwith hell, for its removal. This he readily undertook, on condition of\nbeing locked up with the maiden for a night, or two at most. She was to\nbe left solely to his management; without the interference of any other\nhuman being; and with the help only of the Bible, the lamp, and the\nhour-glass, he declared that he would drive the unclean spirit from his\ntabernacle of clay.\n\nTo these conditions Maron Linton gladly assented; and, with grateful and\nfond acknowledgments, called him their benefactor and spiritual guide,\ntheir deliverer and shield; but he checked her, and said, there was\nstill one condition more on which she behoved to condescend. It was\nlikely that he might be under the hard necessity of using some violent\nmeasures in exorcising her, for it would be hard to drive the malignant\nspirit from so sweet a habitation; but whatever noises might be heard,\nno one was to interfere, or even listen, upon pain of being delivered up\nto the foul spirit, soul and body; and it was ten to one that any who\nwas so imprudent as to intrude on these awful and mysterious rites,\nmight be torn in pieces.\n\nMaron blest herself from all interference, and gave Nanny directions to\nthe same purport; as for the two boys, they slept out of hearing. She\nlikewise gave him the key, that he might lock both the doors of the Old\nRoom in the inside, and thus prevent all intrusions, should any be\noffered. He said prayers in the family, to which Katharine was admitted;\nand then taking the lamp and the hour-glass in his hand, and the Bible\nbelow his arm, he departed into the Old Room, where, in about half an\nhour afterwards, the maiden was summoned to attend him. He took her\nrespectfully by the hand, and seated her on a chair at the side of the\nbed, saying, that he was commissioned by her worthy mother to hold a\nlittle private conversation with her. Then locking the door, and putting\nthe key in his pocket, he added, \"You are my prisoner for this night,\nbut be not alarmed; I have undertaken to drive an evil spirit away from\nyou, but both my exorcisms and orisons shall be adapted to the feelings\nof a young maiden, and as agreeable to one whom I so much admire, as it\nis in my power to make them.\"\n\nKatharine grew as pale as death as he uttered these words, and placed\nhimself cordially by her side.\n\nIt is unmeet to relate the conversation that ensued; but the worthy\ncurate soon showed off in his true colours, and with unblushing front\nventured a proposal that shocked the innocent and modest Katharine so\nmuch, that she could only reply to it by holding up her hands, and\nuttering a loud exclamation of astonishment. His further precedure soon\nconvinced her, that she was in the hands of a man who was determined to\ntake every advantage of the opportunity thus unwarrantably afforded him,\nand to stick at no atrocity for the accomplishment of his purposes.\n\nShe neither descended to tears nor entreaties, but resisted all his\napproaches with a firmness and dignity that he never conceived to have\nformed any part of her character; and, when continuing to press her\nhand, she said to him, \"You had better keep your distance, Mass John\nClerk, and consider what befits your character, and the confidence\nreposed in you by my unsuspecting parent; but I tell you, if you again\npresume to touch me, though it were but with one of your fingers, I\nwill, in a moment, bring those out of the chink of the wall, or from\nunder that hearth, that shall lay you motionless at my feet in the\ntwinkling of an eye, or bear you off to any part of the creation that I\nshall name.\"\n\nHe smiled as she said this, and was about to turn it into a jest; but on\nlooking at her face, he perceived that there was not one trait of\njocularity in it. It beamed with a mystical serenity which sent a\nchillness through his whole frame; and, for the first time, he deemed\nher deranged, or possessed in some manner, he wist not how. Staunch,\nhowever, to his honourable purpose, he became so unequivocal, that she\nwas obliged to devise some means of attaining a temporary cessation; and\nfeigning to hesitate on his proposal, she requested a minute or two to\nspeak.\n\n\"I am but young, Mass John,\" said she, \"and have no experience in the\nways of the world; and it seems, from what you have advanced, that I\nattach more importance to some matters than they deserve. But I beg of\nyou to give me a little time to reflect on the proposal you have made.\nSee that hour-glass is half run out already: I only ask of you not to\ndisturb or importune me until it run out a second time.\"\n\n\"And do you then promise to do as I request?\" said he.\n\n\"I do,\" returned she, \"provided you still continue of the same mind as\nyou are now.\"\n\n\"My mind is made up,\" said he, \"and my resolution taken in all that\nrelates to you; nevertheless, it would be hard to refuse a maid so\ngentle and modest a request--I grant it--and should you attempt to break\noff your engagement at the expiry of the time, it shall be the worse for\nyou.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" replied she; \"in the meantime let me be undisturbed till\nthen.\" And so saying, she arose and went aside to the little table where\nthe Bible and the lamp were placed, and began with great seriousness to\nsearch out, and peruse parts of the sacred volume.\n\nClerk liked not this contemplative mood, and tried every wile in his\npower to draw her attention from the Scriptures. He sought out parts\nwhich he desired her to read, if she would read; but from these she\nturned away without deigning to regard them, and gently reminded him\nthat he had broken one of his conditions. \"Maids only impose such\nconditions on men,\" said he, \"as they desire should be broken.\" At this\nshe regarded him with a look of ineffable contempt, and continued to\nread on in her Bible.\n\nThe hour of midnight was now passed,--the sand had nearly run out for\nthe second time since the delay had been acceded to, and Clerk had been\nfor a while tapping the glass on the side, and shaking it, to make it\nempty its contents the sooner. Katharine likewise began to eye it with\nlooks that manifested some degree of perturbation; she clasped the\nBible, and sate still in one position, as if listening attentively for\nsome sound or signal. The worthy curate at length held the hour-glass up\nbetween her eye and the burning lamp,--the last lingering pile of sand\nfell reluctantly out as he shook it in that position,--anxiety and\nsuspense settled more deeply on the lovely and serene face of Katharine;\nbut instead of a flexible timidity, it assumed an air of sternness. At\nthat instant the cock crew,--she started,--heaved a deep sigh, like one\nthat feels a sudden relief from pain, and a beam of joy shed its\nradiance over her countenance. Clerk was astonished,--he could not\ndivine the source or cause of her emotions, but judging from his own\ncorrupt heart, he judged amiss. True however to his point, he reminded\nher of her promise, and claimed its fulfilment. She deigned no reply to\nhis threats or promises, but kept her eye steadfastly fixed on another\npart of the room. He bade her remember that he was not to be mocked, and\nin spite of her exertions, he lifted her up in his arms, and carried her\nacross the room towards the bed. She uttered a loud scream, and in a\nmoment the outer-door that entered from the bank was opened, and a being\nof such unearthly dimensions entered, as you may never wholly define. It\nwas the Brownie of Bodsbeck, sometimes mentioned before, small of\nstature, and its whole form utterly mis-shaped. Its beard was long and\ngrey, while its look, and every lineament of its face, were indicative\nof agony--its locks were thin, dishevelled, and white, and its back\nhunched up behind its head. There seemed to be more of the same species\nof hagard beings lingering behind at the door, but this alone advanced\nwith a slow majestic pace. Mass John uttered two involuntary cries,\nsomewhat resembling the shrill bellowings of an angry bull, mixed with\ninarticulate rumblings,--sunk powerless on the floor, and, with a deep\nshivering groan, fainted away. Katharine, stretching forth her hands,\nflew to meet her unearthly guardian;--\"Welcome, my watchful and\nredoubted Brownie,\" said she; \"thou art well worthy to be familiar with\nan empress, rather than an insignificant country maiden.\"\n\n    \"Brownie's here, Brownie's there\n    Brownie's with thee every where,\"\n\nsaid the dwarfish spirit, and led her off in triumph.\n\nHaving bethought herself after she went out, she returned lightly, took\nthe keys from the pocket of the forlorn priest, extinguished the lamp,\nand again disappeared, locking the door on the outside.\n\nMass John's trance threw him into a heavy and perturbed slumber, which\noverpowered him for a long space; and even after he awaked, it was long\nbefore he could fathom the circumstances of his case, for he imagined he\nhad only been in a frightful and oppressive dream; till, beginning to\ngrope about, he discovered that he was lying on the damp floor with his\nclothes on; and at length, without opening his eyes, he recovered by\ndegrees his reasoning faculties, and was able to retrace the\ncircumstances that led to his present situation. He arose in great\ndismay--the day-light had begun to shine into the room, and finding that\nboth doors were locked, he deemed it unadvisable to make any noise, and\nthrew himself upon the bed. The retrospect of his adventure was fraught\nwith shame and astonishment. He had acted a considerable part in it, but\nhe had dreamed of a great deal more, and with all his ingenuity he could\nnot separate in his mind the real incidents from those that were\nimaginary. He arose with the sun, and rapped gently at the inner-door,\nwhich, to his still farther astonishment, was opened by Katharine, in\nher usual neat and cleanly morning dress. He stared in her face, to mark\nif he could read any meaning in it--he could distinguish none that spoke\na language to him either good or bad--it was a face of calm decent\nserenity, and wore no shade of either shame or anger--somewhat paler\nthan it was the evening before, but still as lovely as ever. The curate\nseemed gasping for breath, but not having courage to address her, he\nwalked forth to the open air.\n\nIt was a beautiful morning in September; the ground was covered with a\nslight hoar frost, and a cloud of light haze (or as the country people\ncall it, _the blue ouder_,) slept upon the long valley of water, and\nreached nearly midway up the hills. The morning sun shone full upon it,\nmaking it appear like an ocean of silvery down. It vanished by\nimperceptible degrees into the clear blue firmament, and was succeeded\nby a warm sun and a southerly breeze. It was such a morning as could\nnot fail to cheer and re-animate every heart and frame, not wholly\novercome by guilt and disease--Clark's were neither--he was depraved of\nheart, but insensible to the evil of such a disposition; he had,\nmoreover, been a hanger-on from his youth upward, and had an effrontery\nnot to be outfaced. Of course, by the time he had finished a\nthree-hour's walk, he felt himself so much refreshed and invigorated in\nmind, that he resolved not to expose himself to the goodwife, who was\nhis principal stay and support among his straggled and dissatisfied\nflock, by a confession of the dreadful fright he had gotten, but to\nweather out the storm with as lofty and saintly a deportment as he\ncould.\n\nHe had not well gone out when the lad of Kepplegill arrived, and\ndelivered to Katharine her father's letter. She saw the propriety of the\ninjunction which it bore, and that an immediate application to their\nlaird, Drumelzier, who was then high in trust and favour with the party\nin power, was the likeliest of all ways to procure her father's relief,\nneither durst she trust the mission to any but herself. But ah! there\nwas a concealed weight that pressed upon her spirit--a secret\ncircumstance that compelled her to stay at home, and which could not be\nrevealed to mortal ear. Her father's fate was at present uncertain and\nticklish, but that secret once revealed, tortures, death, and ruin were\ninevitable--the doom of the whole family was sealed. She knew not what\nto do, for she had none to advise with. There was but one on earth to\nwhom this secret could be imparted; indeed there was but one in whose\npower it was to execute the trust which the circumstances of the case\nrequired, and that was old Nanny, who was crazed, fearless, and\naltogether inscrutable. Another trial, however, of her religious\nprinciples, and adherence to the established rules of church government\nin the country, was absolutely necessary; and to that trial our young\nand mysterious heroine went with all possible haste, as well as\nprecaution.\n\nWhosoever readeth this must paint to themselves old Nanny, and they must\npaint her aright, with her thin fantastic form and antiquated dress,\nbustling up and down the house. Her fine stock of bannocks had been all\nexhausted--the troopers and their horses had left nothing in her\nmaster's house that could either be eaten or conveniently carried away.\nShe had been early astir, as well as her sedate and thoughtful young\ndame, had been busy all the morning, and the whole time her tongue never\nat rest. She had been singing one while, speaking to herself another,\nand every now and then intermixing bitter reflections on Clavers and his\ntroops.\n\n\"Wae be to them for a pack o' greedy gallayniels--they haena the mence\nof a miller's yaud; for though she'll stap her nose into every body's\npock, yet when she's fou she'll carry naething wi' her. Heichow! wae's\nme, that I sude hae lived to see the day! That ever I sude hae lived to\nsee the colehood take the laverock's place; and the stanchel and the\nmerlin chatterin' frae the cushat's nest! Ah! wae's me! will the sweet\nvoice o' the turtle-doo be nae mair heard in our land! There was a time\nwhen I sat on the bonny green brae an' listened to it till the tears\ndreepit frae my een, an' a' the hairs o' my head stood on end!--The\nhairs o' my head?--Ay, that's nae lie! They're grey now, an' will soon\nbe snaw-white if heart's care can alter them; but they will never be sae\nwhite as they anes war. I saw the siller-grey lock o' age, an' the manly\ncurls o' youth wavin' at my side that day!--But where are they now? A'\nmouled! a' mouled!--But the druckit blood winna let them rot! I'll see\nthem rise fresh an' bonny! I'll look round to my right hand and ane will\nsae, 'Mother! my dear mother, are you here with us?' I'll turn to my\nleft hand, another will say, 'Nanny! my dear and faithful wife, are you\ntoo here with us?'--I'll say, 'Ay, John, I'm here; I was yours in life;\nI have been yours in death; an' I'll be yours in life again.'--Dear\nbairn, dear bairn, are you there,\" continued she, observing Katharine\nstanding close behind her; \"what was I saying, or where was I at? I\nlittle wat outher what I was saying or doing.--Hout ay; I was gaun ower\nsome auld things, but they're a' like a dream, an' when I get amang them\nI'm hardly mysel. Dear bairn, ye maunna mind an auld crazy body's\nreveries.\"\n\nThere was some need for this apology, if Nanny's frame, air, and\nattitude, are taken into account. She was standing with her back to the\nlight, mixing meal with water, whereof to make bread--her mutch, or\n_night-hussing_, as she called it, was tied close down over her cheeks\nand brow as usual; her grey locks hanging dishevelled from under it; and\nas she uttered the last sentence, immediately before noticing her young\nmistress, her thin mealy hands were stretched upwards, her head and\nbody bent back, and her voice like one in a paroxysm. Katharine quaked,\nalthough well accustomed to scenes of no ordinary nature.\n\n\"Nanny,\" said she, \"there is something that preys upon your mind--some\ngreat calamity that recurs to your memory, and goes near to unhinge your\ntranquillity of mind, if not your reason. Will you inform me of it, good\nNanny, that I may talk and sympathize with you over it?\"\n\n\"Dear bairn, nae loss ava--A' profit! a' profit i'the main! I haena\nbiggit a bield o' the windlestrae, nor lippened my weight to a broken\nreed! Na, na, dear bairn; nae loss ava.\"\n\n\"But, Nanny, I have overheard you in your most secret hours, in your\nprayers and self-examinations.\"\n\nAt the mention of this Nanny turned about, and after a wild searching\nstare in her young mistress's face, while every nerve of her frame\nseemed to shrink from the recollection of the disclosures she feared\nshe had made, she answered as follows, in a deep and tremulous tone:--\n\n\"That was atween God and me--There was neither language nor sound there\nfor the ear o' flesh!--It was unfair!--It was unfair!--Ye are mistress\nhere, and ye keep the keys o' the aumbry, the kitchen, the ha', an' the\nhale house; but wi' the secret keys o' the heart and conscience ye hae\nnaething to do!--the keys o' the sma'est portal that leads to heaven or\nhell are nane o' yours; therefore, what ye hae done was unfair. If I\nchose, sinful and miserable as I am, to converse with my God about the\ndead as if they war living, an' of the living as if they war dead,\nwhat's that to you? Or if I likit to take counsel of that which\nexists only in my own mind, is the rackle hand o' steelrife power\nto make a handle o' that to grind the very hearts of the just and the\ngood, or turn the poor wasted frame o' eild and resignation on the\nwheel?--Lack-a-day, my dear bairn, I'm lost again! Ye canna an' ye\nmaunna forgie me now. Walth's dear, an' life's dearer--but sin' it maun\nbe sae, twal o'clock sanna find me aneath your roof--there shall naebody\nsuffer for harbouring poor auld Nanny--she has seen better days, an' she\nhopes to see better anes again; but it's lang sin' the warld's weel an'\nthe warld's wae came baith to her alike. I maun e'en bid ye fareweel, my\nbonny bairn, but I maun tell ye ere I gae that ye're i'the _braid way_.\nYe hae some good things about ye, and O, it is a pity that a dear sweet\nsoul should be lost for want o' light to direct! How can a dear bairn\nfind the right way wi' its een tied up? But I maun haud my tongue an'\nleave ye--I wad fain greet, but I hae lost the gate o't, for the\nfountain-head has been lang run dry--Weel, weel--it's a' ower!--nae mair\nabout it--How's this the auld sang gaes?\n\n    When the well runs dry then the rain is nigh,\n      The heavens o' earth maun borrow,\n    An' the streams that stray thro' the wastes the day,\n      May sail aboon the morrow.\n\n    Then dinna mourn, my bonny bird,\n      I downa bide to hear ye;\n    The storm may blaw, and the rain may fa',\n      But nouther sal come near ye.\n\n    O dinna weep for the day that's gane,\n      Nor on the present ponder,\n    For thou shalt sing on the laverock's wing,\n      An' far away beyond her.\"\n\nThis Nanny sung to an air so soothing, and at the same time so\nmelancholy, it was impossible to listen to her unaffected, especially as\nshe herself was peculiarly so--a beam of wild delight glanced in her\neye, but it was like the joy of grief, (if one may be allowed the\nexpression,) if not actually the joy of madness. Nothing could be more\ninteresting than her character was now to the bewildered Katharine--it\narose to her eyes, and grew on her mind like a vision. She had been led\npreviously to regard her as having been crazed from her birth, and her\nsongs and chaunts to be mere ravings of fancy, strung in rhymes to suit\nfavourite airs, or old scraps of ballads void of meaning, that she had\nlearned in her youth. But there was a wild elegance at times in her\nmanner of thinking and expression--a dash of sublimity that was\ninconsistent with such an idea. \"Is it possible,\" (thus reasoned the\nmaiden with herself,) \"that this demeanour can be the effect of great\nworldly trouble and loss?--Perhaps she is bereft of all those who were\nnear and dear to her in life--is left alone as it were in this world,\nand has lost a relish for all its concerns, while her whole hope, heart,\nand mind, is fixed on a home above, to which all her thoughts, dreams,\nand even her ravings insensibly turn, and to which the very songs and\nchaunts of her youthful days are modelled anew. If such is really her\ncase, how I could sympathize with her in all her feelings!\"\n\n\"Nanny,\" said she, \"how wofully you misapprehend me; I came to exchange\nburdens of heart and conscience with you--to confide in you, and love\nyou: Why will not you do the same with me, and tell me what loss it is\nthat you seem to bewail night and day, and what affecting theme it is\nthat thus puts you beside yourself?--If I judge not far amiss, the\nknowledge of this is of greater import to my peace than aught in the\nworld beside, and will lead to a secret from me that deeply concerns us\nboth.\"\n\nNanny's suspicions were aroused, not laid, by this speech; she eyed her\nyoung mistress steadfastly for a while, smiled, and shook her head.\n\n\"Sae young, sae bonny, and yet sae cunning!\" said she. \"Judas coudna\nhae sic a face, but he had nouther a fairer tongue nor a fauser\nheart!--A secret frae you, dear bairn! what secret can come frae you,\nbut some bit waefu' love story, enough to mak the pinks an' the ewe\ngowans blush to the very lip? My heart's wae for ye, ae way an' a' ways;\nbut its a part of your curse--woman sinned an' woman maun suffer--her\nhale life is but a succession o' shame, degradation, and suffering, frae\nher cradle till her grave.\"\n\nKatharine was dumb for a space, for reasoning with Nanny was out of the\nquestion.\n\n\"You may one day rue this misprision of my motives, Nanny,\" rejoined\nshe; \"in the mean time, I am obliged to leave home, on an express that\nconcerns my father's life and fortune; be careful of my mother until my\nreturn, and of every thing about the house, for the charge of all must\ndevolve for a space on you.\"\n\n\"That I will, dear bairn--the thing that Nanny has ta'en in hand sanna\nbe neglected, if her twa hands can do it, and her auld crazed head\ncomprehend it.\"\n\n\"But, first, tell me, and tell me seriously, Nanny, are you subject to\nany apprehension or terror on account of spirits?\"\n\n\"Nae mair feared for them than I am for you, an' no half sae muckle, wi'\nyour leave.--Spirits, quoth I!\n\n    Little misters it to me\n    Whar they gang, or whar they ride;\n    Round the hillock, on the lea,\n    Round the auld borral tree,\n    Or bourock by the burn side;\n    Deep within the bogle-howe,\n    Wi' his haffats in a lowe,\n    Wons the waefu' wirricowe.\n\n\"Ah! noble Cleland! it is like his wayward freaks an' whimsies! Did ye\nnever hear it, you that speaks about spirits as they war your door\nneighbours? It's a clever thing; his sister sung it; I think, it rins\nthis gate--hum! but then the dilogue comes in, and it is sae kamshachle\nI canna word it, though I canna say it's misleared either.\"\n\n\"Dear Nanny, that is far from my question. You say you are nothing\nafraid of spirits?\"\n\n\"An' why should I? If they be good spirits, they will do me nae ill;\nand if they be evil spirits, they hae nae power here. Thinkna ye that He\nthat takes care o' me throughout the day, is as able to do it by night?\nNa, na, dear bairn, I hae contendit wi' the warst o' a' spirits face to\nface, hand to hand, and breast to breast; ay, an' for a' his power, an'\na' his might, I dang him; and packed him off baffled and shamed!--Little\nreason hae I to be feared for ony o' his black emissaries.\"\n\n\"Should one appear to you bodily, would you be nothing distracted or\nfrightened?\"\n\n\"In my own strength I could not stand it, but yet I would stand it.\"\n\n\"That gives me joy--Then, Nanny, list to me: You will assuredly see one\nin my absence; and you must take good heed to my directions, and act\nprecisely as I bid you.\"\n\nNanny gave up her work, and listened in suspense. \"Then it is a' true\nthat the fock says!\" said she, with a long-drawn sigh. \"His presence be\nabout us!\"\n\n\"How sensibly you spoke just now! Where is your faith fled already? I\ntell you there will one appear to you every night in my absence,\nprecisely on the first crowing of the cock, about an hour after\nmidnight, and you must give him every thing that he asks, else it may\nfare the worse with you, and all about the house.\"\n\nNanny's limbs were unable to support her weight--they trembled under\nher. She sat down on a form, leaned her brow upon both hands, and\nrecited the 63d Psalm from beginning to end in a fervent tone.\n\n\"I wasna prepared for this,\" said she. \"I fear, though my faith may\nstand it, my wits will not. Dear, dear bairn, is there nae way to get\naff frae sic a trial?\"\n\n\"There is only one, which is fraught with danger of another sort; but\nwere I sure that I could trust you with it, all might be well, and you\nwould rest free from any intercourse with that unearthly visitant, of\nwhom it seems you are so much in terror.\"\n\n\"For my own sake ye may trust me there: Ony thing but a bogle face to\nface at midnight, an' me a' my lane. It is right wonderfu', though I ken\nI'll soon be in a warld o' spirits, an' that I maun mingle an' mool wi'\nthem for ages, how the nature within me revolts at a' communion wi' them\nhere. Dear bairn, gie me your other plan, an' trust me for my own sake.\"\n\n\"It is this--but if you adopt it, for your life an' soul let no one in\nthis place know of it but yourself:--It is to admit one or two of the\nfugitive whigs,--these people that skulk and pray about the mountains,\nprivily into the house every night, until my return. If you will give me\nany test of your secrecy and truth, I will find ways and means of\nbringing them to you, which will effectually bar all intrusion of bogle\nor Brownie on your quiet; or should any such dare to appear, they will\ndeal with it themselves.\"\n\n\"An' _can_ the presence o' ane o' _them_ do this?\" said Nanny, starting\nup and speaking in a loud eldrich voice. \"Then Heaven and hell\nacknowledges it, an' the earth maun soon do the same! I knew it!--I knew\nit!--I knew it!--ha, ha, ha, I knew it!--Ah! John, thou art safe!--Ay!\nan' mae than thee; an' there will be mae yet! It is but a day! an' dark\nan' dismal though it be, the change will be the sweeter! Blessed,\nblessed be the day! None can say of thee that thou died like a fool, for\nthy hands were not bound, nor thy feet put into fetters.\" Then turning\nclose round to Katharine, with an expression of countenance quite\nindescribable, she added in a quick maddened manner,--\"Eh? Thou seekest\na test of me, dost thou? Can blood do it?--Can martyrdom do it?--Can\nbonds, wounds, tortures, and mockery do it?--Can death itself do it? All\nthese have I suffered for that cause _in this same body_; mark that; for\nthere is but one half of my bone and my flesh here. But words are\nnothing to the misbelieving--mere air mouthed into a sound. Look at this\nfor a test of _my_ sincerity and truth.\" So saying, she gave her hand a\nwild brandish in the air, darted it at her throat, and snapping the tie\nof her cap that she had always worn over her face, she snatched it off,\nand turning her cheek round to her young mistress, added, \"Look there\nfor your test, and if that is not enough, I will give you more!\"\n\nKatharine was struck dumb with astonishment and horror. She saw that\nher ears were cut out close to the skull, and a C. R. indented on\nher cheek with a hot iron, as deep as the jaw-bone. She burst out a\ncrying--clasped the old enthusiast in her arms--kissed the wound and\nsteeped it with her tears, and without one further remark, led her away\nto the Old Room, that they might converse without interruption.\n\nThe sequel of this disclosure turned not out as desired; but this we\nmust leave by the way, until we overtake it in the regular course of the\nnarrative.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nAs soon as her father's letter was put into her hands, Katharine sent\noff one of her brothers to Muchrah, to warn old John and his son to come\ninstantly to Chapelhope. They both arrived while she and Nanny were\nconsulting in the Old Room. She told them of her father's letter, of the\njeopardy he was in, and of her intended application to Drummelzier\nwithout loss of time. \"One of you,\" said she, \"must accompany me; and I\nsent for you both, to learn which could, with least inconvenience, be\nwanted from your flocks.\"\n\n\"As for me,\" said John, \"it's out o' the question to _think_ about me\nwinning away. The ewes wad gang wi' the bit hog-fence o' the Quave Brae,\nstoup and roup. What wi' ghaists, brownies, dead men, an' ae mischief\nan' other, it is maistly gane already; an' what's to come o' the poor\nbits o' plottin baggits a' winter, is mair nor I can tell. They may pike\nthe woo aff ane another for aught that I see.\"\n\nKatharine was grieved to hear this remonstrance, for she was desirous of\nhaving old John as a guide and protector, who well knew the way, and was\nbesides singular for strength and courage, if kept among beings of this\nworld. She represented to him that the hog-fence of the Quave-Brae,\ncould not possibly be of equal importance with his master's life, nor\nyet with the loss of his whole stock, both of sheep and cattle, which\nmight be confiscated, if prompt measures were not adopted. Nothing,\nhowever, could persuade John, that ought could be of equal importance to\nhim with that which he had the charge of, and on which his heart and\nattention were so much set both by day and night. He said he had lost\nhis lugs, and been brunt wi' the king's birn, for the hog-fence of the\nQuave-Brae; and when he coudna get away to the prison at Edinburgh for\nfear o't, but suffered sae muckle in place o' that, how could he win\naway a' the gate to Dunse Castle?\n\nJasper liked not the journey more than he; for being convinced of\nKatharine's power over spirits, he was very jealous of her taking undue\nadvantages of him, but he was obliged to submit. He refused a horse,\nsaying \"it would only taigle him, but if she suffered him to gang on his\nfeet, if he was hindmost at Dunse, he should gie her leave to cut the\nlugs out o' his head too, and then he wad hae the thief's mark on him\nlike his father.\"\n\nAway they went; she riding on a stout shaggy poney, and Jasper running\nbefore her barefoot, but with his _hose and shoon_ bound over his\nshoulder. He took the straight line for Dunse, over hill and dale, as a\nshepherd always does, who hates the _wimples_, as he calls them, of a\nturnpike. He took such a line as an eagle would take, or a flock of\nwild geese journeying from the one side of the country to the other,\nnever once reflecting on the inconvenience of riding on such a road. Of\ncourse, it was impossible his young mistress could keep up with\nhim--indeed she had often enough to do in keeping sight of him. They met\nwith some curious adventures by the way, particularly one near\nThirlestane castle on Leader, with some stragglers of a troop of\nsoldiers. But these things we must hurry over as extraneous matter,\nhaving nothing more to do with them than as connected with the thread of\nour tale. They slept that night at a farm-house in Lammermoor, which\nbelonged to Drummelzier, and next day by noon arrived at Dunse Castle.\n\nDrummelzier, being one of the Committee of Public Safety, was absent\nfrom home, to which he did not return for several days, to the great\nperplexity of Katharine, who was in the utmost distress about her\nfather, as well as her affairs at home. She was obliged, however, to\nwait with patience, as no one knew in what part of the country he was.\nThe housekeeper, who was an Englishwoman, was kind to her, and bade her\nnot be afraid, for that their master had much more power with the\ngovernment than Claverhouse, the one being a moving spring, and the\nother only a tool.\n\nDrummelzier was a bold and determined royalist--was, indeed, in high\ntrust with the Privy-council, and had it in his power to have harassed\nthe country as much, and more, than the greater part of those who did\nso; but, fortunately for that south-east division of Scotland, he was a\ngentleman of high honour, benevolence, and suavity of manners, and\ndetested any act of injustice or oppression. He by these means\ncontributed materially to the keeping of a large division of Scotland\n(though as whiggishly inclined as any part of it, Ayrshire perhaps\nexcepted,) in perfect peace. The very first dash that Clavers made among\nthe Covenanters, while he was as yet only a captain of a company, was\ninto this division of the country over which Drummelzier was appointed\nto keep an eye, and it was in consequence of his intrepid and decided\nbehaviour there, that the Duke of York interested himself in his behalf,\nand procured him the command of a troop of horse. At a place called\nBewly, on the confines of Roxburghshire, he surprised a large\nconventicle about eleven o'clock on a Sabbath morning. Having but a\nsmall band, as soon as he appeared a crowd of the hearers gathered round\nthe preacher to defend him, or to further his escape. Clavers burst in\nupon them like a torrent; killed and wounded upwards of an hundred; took\nthe preacher prisoner, and all such of the hearers as were the most\nrespectable in appearance. He would have detained many more had his\nforce been sufficient for his designs, for that very day, about five\no'clock in the afternoon, he surprised another numerous conventicle, at\na place called Helmburn-Linn, in Selkirkshire, where he acted over the\nsame scene that he had done in the morning. The people, it is true, did\nnot get time to rally round their pastor as at the former place, for the\nfirst intelligence they had of his approach was from a volley of\nmusketry among them from the top of the linn, which took too sure\neffect.\n\nThe congregation scattered in a moment; and as there were strong\nfastnesses near at hand, none were taken prisoners, save some old men,\nand a number of ladies; unfortunately all these were ladies of\ndistinction: the preacher likewise was taken, who suffered afterwards.\nThe soldiers related of this man, that when they came upon the crowd,\nand fired among them, he was in the middle of his afternoon prayer, and\nall the people standing uncovered around him; and that for all the\nshots, and the people flying and falling dead about him, he never so\nmuch as paused, nor took down his hands, nor even opened his eyes, but\nconcluded a sentence in the same fervent tone, after they had dragged\nhim from the tent.\n\nAt one or other of these unfortunate conventicles, a part of all the\nchief families of the Pringles, such as Torwoodlee, Whitebank,\nFairnilie, and others, were taken prisoners; as well as some of the\nScotts of Harden, and the Douglasses of Cavers and Boonjeddart; rich\nprizes for Clavers, who bore them all in triumph prisoners to Edinburgh.\n\nDrummelzier put his whole interest to the stretch to get these leading\nand respectable families freed from such a disagreeable dilemma, and\nsucceeded in getting the greater part of them set at liberty, on giving\nsecurities. From that time forth, there existed a secret jealousy\nbetween him and Clavers; but as their jurisdiction lay on different\nsides of the country, they had no further interference with one another.\n\nWhen Katharine informed him, that his farmer, whom he so much esteemed,\nwas taken away a prisoner, and by whom, he bit his lip, shook his head,\nand seemed highly incensed. He then questioned her about all the\ncharges against him, and the evidence; requesting her, at the same time,\nto tell him the truth, in all its bearings, to the most minute scruple;\nand when he had heard all, he said, that his lordship had other motives\nfor this capture besides these. He lost no time in setting about the\nmost coercive measures he could think of, to procure his liberty. He\nsent an express to the Privy-council, and wrote to sundry other\ngentlemen, whom Katharine knew nothing of; but the destination of Walter\nbeing utterly unknown to either of them, the laird was at a loss how to\nproceed.\n\nHe gave her, moreover, a bond of security, signed with his name, and\nwithout a direction, to a great amount, for her father's appearance at\nany court, to answer such charges as were brought against him; and with\nthis she was to haste to the place where her father was a prisoner, and\npresent it to the sheriff of the county, or chief magistrate of the\nburgh of such place, unless it was at Edinburgh, and in that case she\nwas to take no farther care or concern about him.\n\nShe hasted home with her wild guide, where she arrived the fourth or\nfifth day after her departure; and found, to her astonishment, the\nChapelhope deserted by man, woman, and boy! Not a living creature\nremained about the steading, but her father's dog and some poultry! The\ndoors were locked, and the key away; and, hungry and fatigued as she\nwas, she could find no means of admittance. At length, on looking about,\nshe perceived that the cows were not about the house, nor any where in\nthe corn, and concluding that some one must be herding them, she went up\nthe side of the lake to their wonted walk, and found her two brothers\nattending the cattle.\n\nThey told her that the _town_ (so they always denominate a farm-steading\nin that district,) had been so grievously haunted in her absence, both\nby Brownie and a ghost, that they were all obliged to leave it; that\ntheir mother was gone all the way to Gilmanscleuch to her brother, to\nremain there until she saw what became of her husband; Mass John was\ntaken away by the fairies; and old Nanny was at Riskinhope, where they\nwere also residing and sleeping at night; that the keys of the house\nwere to be had there, but nothing would induce Nanny to come back again\nto Chapelhope, or at least to remain another night under its roof.\n\nOne mischief came thus upon poor Katharine after another; and she was\nutterly unable to account for this piece of intelligence, having been\nsatisfied when she went away, that she had put every thing in train to\nsecure peace and order about the house, until her return. She rode to\nRiskinhope for the key, but not one would accompany her home, poor Nanny\nbeing lying moaning upon a bed. Jasper sat on the side of the hill, at a\nconvenient distance from the house, until her return; but then took her\nhorse from her, and put it away to the rest, refusing to enter the\ndoor. Thus was she left in her father's house all alone. Nanny came\nover, and assisted her in milking the kine evening and morning; and she\nremained the rest of the day, and every night, by herself, neither did\nshe press any one much to bear her company. She had no one to send in\nsearch of her father, and deliver Drummelzier's bond, at least none that\nany one knew of, yet it was sent, and that speedily, although to little\npurpose; for though Walter was sent to Dumfries Jail, he remained there\nbut two nights; a party of prisoners, of ten men and two women, being\nordered for Edinburgh, under a guard of soldiers, he was mixed\nindiscriminately with the rest, and sent there along with them.\n\nHe always said, that though he was disposed to think well of Clavers\nbefore he saw him, yet he never was so blithe in his life as when he got\nfrom under his jurisdiction; for there was an appearance of ferocity and\nwantonness of cruelty in all his proceedings, during the time that he\nrode in his train a prisoner, that made the heart of any man, not\nbrutified by inurement to such scenes, revolt at the principles that\ninduced, as well as the government that warranted them. He saw him and\nhis troopers gather the whole vale of Annandale, as a shepherd gathers\nhis sheep in droves, pricking the inhabitants with their swords to urge\ntheir speed. When he got thus all the people of a parish, or division of\na parish, driven together, he surrounded them with his soldiers, made\nthem kneel by dozens, and take the oath of abjuration, as well as one\nacknowledging James Duke of York their rightful lord and sovereign; and\nlastly, made them renounce their right and part in Heaven, if ever they\nrepented them of that oath. The first man of such a group, who refused\nor objected to compliance with this dreadful measure, he took him\nforthwith behind the ranks and shot him, which summary way of proceeding\ngenerally induced all the people to comply. Moreover, the way in which\nhe threatened and maltreated children, and mocked and insulted women,\nnot to mention more brutal usage of them, proved him at once to be\ndestitute of the behaviour and feelings becoming a man, far less those\nof a gentleman. He seemed to regard all the commonalty in the south and\nwest of Scotland as things to be mocked and insulted at pleasure, as\nbeings created only for the sport of him and his soldiers, while their\nmental and bodily agonies were his delight. The narrator of this tale\nconfesses that he has taken this account of his raid through the vales\nof Esk and Annan solely from tradition, as well as the attack made on\nthe two conventicles, where the Pringles, &c. were taken prisoners; but\nthese traditions are descended from such a source, and by such a line,\nas amounts with him to veracity.\n\nFar different were Walter's feelings on parting with the commander of\nhis guard, Serjeant Daniel Roy Macpherson, a noble block from the\ngenuine quarry of nature--rude as it was taken thence, without the mark\nof hammer or chisel. When he heard that his prisoner was to be taken\nfrom under his charge, he made up to him when out of the eye of his\ncommander, and treated him with a parting speech; which, on account of\nits singularity, is here preserved, though, doubtless, woefully garbled\nby being handed from one southland generation to another.\n\n\"Now he'll pe tahaking you away from mhe pefore as it were yesterdhay;\nand he'll pe putting you into some vhile dark hole with all te low tamn\npwigs that come from te hills of Gallochee and Drummochloonrich, which\nis a shame and a disgrhace to shut up a shentleman who is chief of a\nclan among such poor crhazy maniachs, who will pe filling your ears full\nof their rejoicings in spirit; and of Haiven! and Haiven! just as if\nthey were all going to Haiven! Cot t--n, do they suppose that Haiven is\nto pe filled full of such poor insignaificant crheatures as they? or\nthat Cot is not a shentleman, that he would pe falling into such\ncohmpany? But I'll pe giving you advice as a friend and prhother; when\nyou come pefore the couhnsel, or any of their commissioners, do not you\npe talking of Haiven, and Haiven, and of conscience and covenants. And\ndo not you pe pragging and poasting of one to pe your chief, or to pe of\na clan that has not a friend at court; but tell them your own clan, and\nyour claims to be its chief; and if you do not know her true descent,\nyou had better claim Macpherson; she pe as ould and as honourable a clan\nas any of them all, and more.\"\n\nWalter said, he trusted still to the proofs of his own loyalty, and the\nwant of evidence to the contrary.\n\n\"Pooh! pooh! Cot tamn!\" said Macpherson; \"I tell you the evidence you\nwant is this, if any great man say you ought to live, you will live; if\nnot, you will die. Did not I was telling you that the soholdiers that\nwere found dead in the correi, on the lands that belong to yourself, was\nevidence enough and more; I would not pe giving _a curse_ for _your_\nevidence after that, for the one is much petter than te other. And py\nCot, it is very well thought!\" continued he, smiling grimly, \"if you\nwill pe preaking out into a rage, and pe cursing and tamning them all,\nyou will get free in one moment.\"\n\nWalter said, that would be an easy ransom, and though it was an error he\nwas too apt to fall into when angry, he could see no effect it could\nhave in this case, but to irritate his prosecutors more and more against\nhim.\n\n\"You see no effect! Cot t--n, if you ever can see any effect peyond the\ntop that is on your nose! and you will not pe advised by a man of\nexperience, who would do more for you than he would pe commending of;\nand if you trust to what you can see, you will pe dancing a beautiful\nHighland shig in the air to a saulm tune, and that will have a very good\neffect. I tell you, when you come again to be questioned, I know my Lord\nDundee is to be there to pe adducing his proof; take you great and proud\noffence at some of their questions and their proofs; and you may pe\nmaking offer to fight them all one by one, or two by two, in the king's\nname, and send them all to hell in one pody; you cannot pe tamning them\ntoo much sore. By the soul of Rory More Macpherson! I would almost give\nup this claymore to be by and see that effect. Now you are not to pe\nminding because I am laughing like a fool, for I'm perfectly serious; if\nmatters should pe standing hard with you, think of the advice of an ould\nfriend, who respects you as the chief of the clan MacLeadle, supposing\nit to pe as low, and as much fallen down as it may.--Farewell! she pe\ngiving you her hearty Cot's blessing.\"\n\nThus parted he with Daniel Roy Macpherson, and, as he judged, an\nunfortunate change it was for him. The wretch who now took the command\nof their guard had all the ignorance and rudeness of the former, without\nany counterbalance of high feeling and honour like him. His name was\nPatie Ingles, a temporary officer, the same who cut off the head of the\namiable Mr White with an axe, at Kilmarnock, carried it to New-mills,\nand gave it to his party to play a game with at foot-ball, which they\ndid. Ingles was drunk during the greater part of the journey, and his\nwhole delight was in hurting, mortifying, and mimicking his prisoners.\nThey were all bound together in pairs, and driven on in that manner like\ncoupled dogs. This was effected by a very simple process. Their hands\nwere fastened behind, the right and left arm of each pair being linked\nwithin one another. Walter was tied to a little spare Galloway weaver, a\nman wholly prone to controversy--he wanted to argue every point--on\nwhich account he was committed. Yet, when among the Cameronians, he took\ntheir principles as severely to task as he did those of the other party\nwhen examined by them. He lived but to contradict. Often did he try\nWalter with different points of opinion regarding the Christian Church.\nWalter knew so little about them that the weaver was astonished. He\ntried him with the apologetical declaration. Walter had never heard of\nit. He could make nothing of his gigantic associate, and at length began\na sly enquiry on what account he was committed; but even on that he\nreceived no satisfactory information.\n\nIngles came staggering up with them. \"Weel, Master Skinflint, what say\nyou to it the day? This is a pleasant journey, is it not? Eh?--I say,\nMaster, what do they call you! Peal-an'-eat, answer me in this--you\nsee--I say--Is it not delightful? Eh?\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir,\" said the weaver, who wished to be quit of him; \"very\ndelightful to those who feel it so.\"\n\n\"_Feel_ it so!--D--n you, sirrah, what do you mean by that? Do you know\nwho you are speaking to? Eh?--Answer me in this--What do you mean by\n_Feel it so_? Eh?\"\n\n\"I meant nothing,\" returned the weaver, somewhat snappishly, \"but that\nkind of respect which I always pay to gentry like you.\"\n\n\"Gentry like me!--D--n you, sir, if you speak such a--Eh?--Gentry like\nme!--I'll spit you like a cock pheasant--Eh? Have you any of them in\nGalloway? Answer me in this, will you? Eh?\"\n\n\"I'll answer any reasonable thing, sir,\" said the poor weaver.\n\n\"Hout! never head the creature, man,\" said Walter; \"it's a poor drunken\nsenseless beast of a thing.\"\n\nIngles fixed his reeling unsteady eyes upon him, filled with drunken\nrage--walked on, spitting and looking across the way for a considerable\nspace--\"What the devil of a whig camel is this?\" said he, crossing over\nto Walter's side. \"Drunken senseless beast of a thing! Holm, did you\nhear that?--Macwhinny, did you?--Eh? I'll scorn to shoot the cusser,\nthough I could do it--Eh? But I'll kick him like a dog--Eh?--Take that,\nand that, will you? Eh?\" And so saying, he kicked our proud-hearted and\nindependant Goodman of Chapelhope with his plebeian foot, staggering\nbackward each time he struck.\n\nWalter's spirit could not brook this; and disregardful of all\nconsequences, he wheeled about with his face toward him, dragging the\nweaver round with a jerk, as a mastiff sometimes does a spaniel that is\ncoupled to him; and, as Ingles threw up his foot to kick him on the\nbelly, he followed up his heel with his foot, giving him such a fling\nupwards as made him whirl round in the air like a reel. He fell on his\nback, and lay motionless; on which, several of the party of soldiers\nlevelled their muskets at Walter. \"Ay, shoot,\" said he, setting up his\nboardly breast to them--\"Shoot at me if you dare, the best o' ye.\"\n\nThe soldiers cocked their pieces.\n\n\"Your Colonel himsel durstna wrang a hair o' my head, though fain he\nwad hae done sae, without first gieing me ower to his betters--Let me\nsee if a scullion amang ye a' dare do mair than he.\"\n\nThe soldiers turned their eyes, waiting for the word of command; and the\nweaver kept as far away from Walter as the nature of his bonds would let\nhim. The command of the party now devolved on a Serjeant Douglas; who,\nperhaps nothing sorry for what had happened, stepped in between the\nsoldiers and prisoner, and swore a great oath, that \"what the prisoner\nsaid was the truth; and that all that it was their duty to do was, to\ntake the prisoners safe to Edinburgh, as at first ordered; and there\ngive their evidence of this transaction, which would send the lousy whig\nto hell at once, provided there was any chance of his otherwise\nescaping.\"\n\nThey lifted Ingles, and held him up into the air to get breath, loosing\nmeantime his cravat and clothes; on which he fell to vomit severely,\nowing to the fall he had got, and the great quantity of spirits he had\ndrunk. They waited on him for about two hours; but as he still continued\nunable either to speak or walk, they took him into a house called\nGranton, and proceeded on their destination.\n\nThis Douglas, though apparently a superior person to the former\ncommander of the party, was still more intolerant and cruel than he.\nThere was no indignity or inconvenience that he could fasten on his\nprisoners which he did not exercise to the utmost. They lodged that\nnight at a place called Tweedshaws; and Walter used always to relate an\noccurrence that took place the next morning, that strongly marked the\ncharacter of this petty officer, as well as the licensed cruelty of the\ntimes.\n\nSome time previous to this, there had been a fellowship meeting, at a\nplace called Tallo-Lins, of the wanderers that lurked about Chapelhope\nand the adjacent mountains. About eighty had assembled, merely to spend\nthe night in prayer, reading the Scriptures, &c. The curate of\nTweedsmuir, a poor dissolute wretch, sent a flaming account of this in\nwriting to the privy council, magnifying that simple affair to a great\nand dangerous meeting of armed men. The council took the alarm, raised\nthe hue and cry, and offered a reward for the apprehending of any one\nwho had been at the meeting of Tallo-Lins. The curate, learning that a\nparty of the king's troops was lodged that night in his parish and\nneighbourhood, came to Tweedshaws at a late hour, and requested to speak\nwith the captain of the party. He then informed Douglas of the meeting,\nshewed him the council's letter and proclamation, and finally told him\nthat there was a man in a cottage hard by whom he strongly suspected to\nhave formed one at the meeting alluded to in the proclamation. There\nbeing no conveniency for lodging so many people at Tweedshaws, Douglas\nand the curate drank together all the night, as did the soldiers in\nanother party. A number of friends to the prisoners had given them money\nwhen they left Dumfries for Edinburgh, to supply as well as they might\nthe privations to which they would be subjected; but here the military\ntook the greater part of it from them to supply their intemperance.\nAbout the break of day, they went and surrounded a shepherd's cottage\nbelonging to the farm of Corehead, having been led thither by the\ncurate, where they found the shepherd an old man, his daughter, and one\nEdward M'Cane, son to a merchant in Lanarkshire, who was courting this\nshepherdess, a beautiful young maiden. The curate having got\nintelligence that a stranger was at that house, immediately suspected\nhim to be one of the wanderers, and on this surmise the information was\ngiven. The curate acknowledged the shepherd and his daughter as\nparishioners, but of M'Cane, he said, he knew nothing, and had no doubt\nthat he was one of the rebellious whigs. They fell to examine the youth,\nbut they were all affected with the liquor they had drunk over night,\nand made a mere farce of it, paying no regard to his answers, or, if\nthey did, it was merely to misconstrue or mock them. He denied having\nbeen at the meeting at Tallo-Linns, and all acquaintance with the\nindividuals whom they named as having been there present. Finding that\nthey could make nothing of him whereon to ground a charge, Douglas made\nthem search him for arms; for being somewhat drunk, he took it highly\namiss that he should have been brought out of his way for nothing.\nM'Cane judged himself safe on that score, for he knew that he had\nneither knife, razor, bodkin, nor edged instrument of any kind about\nhim; but as ill luck would have it, he chanced to have an old gun-flint\nin his waistcoat pocket. Douglas instantly pronounced this to be\nsufficient, and ordered him to be shot. M'Cane was speechless for some\ntime with astonishment, and at length told his errand, and the footing\non which he stood with the young girl before them, offering at the same\ntime to bring proofs from his own parish of his loyalty and conformity.\nHe even condescended to kneel to the ruffian, to clasp his knees, and\nbeg and beseech of him to be allowed time for a regular proof; but\nnothing would move him. He said, the courtship was a very clever excuse,\nbut would not do with him, and forthwith ordered him to be shot. He\nwould not even allow him to sing a psalm with his two friends, but\ncursed and swore that the devil a psalm he should sing there. He said,\n\"It would not be singing a few verses of a psalm in a wretched and\nmiserable style that would keep him out of hell; and if he went to\nheaven, he might then lilt as much at psalm-singing as he had a mind.\"\nWhen the girl, his betrothed sweet-heart, saw the muskets levelled at\nher lover, she broke through the file, shrieking most piteously, threw\nherself on him, clasped his neck and kissed him, crying, like one\ndistracted, \"O Edward, take me wi' ye--take me wi' ye; a' the warld\nsanna part us.\"\n\n\"Ah! Mary,\" said he, \"last night we looked forward to long and happy\nyears--how joyful were our hopes! but they are all blasted at once. Be\ncomforted, my dearest, dearest heart!--God bless you!--Farewell\nforever.\"\n\nThe soldiers then dragged her backward, mocking her with indelicate\nremarks, and while she was yet scarcely two paces removed, and still\nstretching out her hands towards him, six balls were lodged in his heart\nin a moment, and he fell dead at her feet. Deformed and bloody as he\nwas, she pressed the corpse to her bosom, moaning and sobbing in such a\nway as if every throb would have been her last, and in that condition\nthe soldiers marched merrily off and left them. For this doughty and\nnoble deed, for which Serjeant Douglas deserved to have been hanged and\nquartered, he shortly after got a cornetcy in Sir Thomas Livingston's\ntroop of horse.\n\nTwo of the prisoners made their escape that morning, owing to the\ndrunkenness of their guards, on which account the remainder being\nblamed, were more haughtily and cruelly treated than ever. It is\nnecessary to mention all these, as they were afterwards canvassed at\nWalter's trial, the account of which formed one of his winter evening\ntales as long as he lived. Indeed, all such diffuse and miscellaneous\nmatter as is contained in this chapter, is a great incumbrance in the\nright onward progress of a tale; but we have done with it, and shall now\nhaste to the end of our narrative in a direct uninterrupted line.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nThe sudden departure of Katharine from home, after the extraordinary\nadventure of the curate Clerk in the Old Room, at the crowing of the\ncock, was a great relief to him, as it freed him from the embarrassment\nof her company, and gave him an opportunity of telling his own story to\nthe goodwife without interruption, of the success he had in freeing her\ndaughter from the power and fellowship of evil spirits. That story was\nfitted admirably to suit her weak and superstitious mind; it accorded\nwith any thing nearer than the truth, and perhaps this finished\nhypocrite never appeared so great a character in the eyes of Maron\nLinton as he did that day. He spoke of going away to Henderland in the\nevening, but she entreated him so earnestly to stay and protect her from\nthe power of the spirits that haunted the place, that he deemed it\nproper to acquiesce, for without the countenance of the family of\nChapelhope he was nothing--he could not have lived in his puny cure. She\ndepended on him, she said, to rid the town of these audacious (or, as\nshe called them, _misleared_) beings altogether, for without his\ninterference the family would be ruined. Their servants had all left\nthem--the work remained unwrought, and every thing was going to\nconfusion--she had given Brownie his accustomed wages again and again,\nand still he refused to leave the house; and without the holy man's\nassistance in expelling him and his train, their prospects in life were\nhopeless.\n\nThe curate promised to use his highest interest with Heaven, and assured\nher that no further evil should come nigh unto her, at least while he\nremained under her roof; \"for were it not,\" said he, \"for the\nconjunction which they are in with one of the family, they should have\nbeen expelled long ere now. That unnatural bond, I hope, by a course of\nsecret conferences, to be able to break asunder, but be not thou afraid,\nfor no evil shall come nigh thy dwelling.\" He talked with the goodwife\nin the style that pleased her; flattered her high and pure notions of\nreligion, as well as her piety and benevolence; said evening prayers in\nthe family with zeal and devotion; but how was he startled when informed\nthat he was to sleep again in the Old Room! He indeed knew not that it\nwas haunted more than any other part of the house, or that it was the\nfavourite nightly resort of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, but the apparition\nthat he had seen, and the unaccountable rescue that he had witnessed the\nnight before, preyed on his mind, and he hinted to the goodwife, that he\nhad expected to be preferred to her daughter's room and bed that night,\nas she was absent; but Maron, too, was selfish; for who is without that\ngreat ruling motive? She expected that Brownie would appear; that Mass\nJohn would speak to it; and thenceforward to be freed from its unwelcome\nintrusions. To the Old Room he was shown at a late hour, where the lamp,\nthe Bible, and the _sand-glass_ were placed on the little table, at the\nbed's head, as usual.\n\nIt was past eleven when the curate went to sleep. Old Nanny, who was\ndressed more neatly than usual, sat still at the kitchen fire, expecting\nevery minute the two covenant-men, whom her young mistress had promised\nto send to her privily, as her companions and protectors through the\ndark and silent watches of the night until her return. Still nothing of\nthem appeared; but, confident that they would appear, she stirred the\nembers of the fire, and continued to keep watch with patient anxiety.\nWhen it drew towards midnight, as she judged, she heard a noise without,\nas of some people entering, or trying to enter, by the outer door of\nthe Old Room. Concluding that it was her expected companions, and\nalarmed at the wrong direction they had taken, she ran out, and round\nthe west end of the house, to warn them of their mistake, and bring them\nin by the kitchen door. As she proceeded, she heard two or three loud\nand half-stifled howls from the interior of the Old Room. The door was\nshut, but, perceiving by the seam in the window-shutters that the light\nwithin was still burning, she ran to the window, which directly faced\nthe curate's bed; and there being a small aperture broken in one of the\npanes, she edged back the shutter, so as to see and hear the most part\nof what was going on within. She saw four or five figures standing at\nthe bed, resembling human figures in some small degree--their backs\ntowards her; but she saw a half-face of one that held the lamp in its\nhand, and it was of the hue of a smoked wall. In the midst of them stood\nthe deformed little Brownie, that has often been mentioned and\ndescribed in the foregoing part of this tale. In his right hand he\nbrandished a weapon, resembling a dirk or carving-knife. The other hand\nhe stretched out, half-raised over the curate's face, as if to command\nattention. \"Peace!\" said he, \"thou child of the bottomless pit, and\nminister of unrighteousness; another such sound from these polluted lips\nof thine, and I plunge this weapon into thy heart. We would shed thy\nblood without any reluctance--nay, know thou that we would rejoice to do\nit, as thereby we would render our master acceptable service. Not for\nthat intent or purpose are we now come; yet thy abominations shall not\naltogether pass unpunished. Thou knowest thy own heart--its hypocrisy,\nand licentiousness--Thou knowest, that last night, at this same hour,\nthou didst attempt, by brutal force, to pollute the purest and most\nangelic of the human race--we rescued her from thy hellish clutch, for\nwe are her servants, and attend upon her steps. Thou knowest, that still\nthou art cherishing the hope of succeeding in thy cursed scheme. Thou\nart a stain to thy profession, and a blot upon the cheek of nature,\nenough to make thy race and thy nation stink in the nose of their\nCreator!--To what thou deservest, thy doom is a lenient one--but it is\nfixed and irrevocable!\"\n\nThere was something in that mis-shapen creature's voice that chilled\nNanny's very soul while it spoke these words, especially its\npronunciation of some of them; it sounded like something she had heard\nbefore, perhaps in a dream, but it was horrible, and not to be brooked.\nThe rest now laid violent hold of Mass John, and she heard him mumbling\nin a supplicating voice, but knew not what he said. As they stooped\nforward, the lamp shone on the floor, and she saw the appearance of a\ncoffin standing behind them. Nanny was astonished, but not yet overcome;\nfor, cruel were the scenes that she had beheld, and many the trials she\nhad undergone!--but at that instant the deformed and grizly being\nturned round, as if looking for something that it wanted--the lamp shone\nfull on its face, the lineaments of which when Nanny beheld, her eyes at\nonce were darkened, and she saw no more that night. How she spent the\nremainder of it, or by what means she got to her bed in the kitchen, she\nnever knew; but next morning when the goodwife and her sons arose, poor\nold Nanny was lying in the kitchen bed delirious, and talking of\ndreadful and incomprehensible things. All that could be gathered from\nher frenzy was, that some terrible catastrophe had happened in the Old\nRoom, and that Clerk, the curate, was implicated in it. The goodwife,\njudging that her favourite had been at war with the spirits, and that\nHeaven had been of course triumphant, hasted to the Old Room to bless\nand pay the honour due to such a divine character; she called his name\nas she entered, but no one made answer; she hasted to the bed, but\nbehold there was no one there! The goodwife's sole spiritual guide had\nvanished away.\n\nThe curate Clerk was never more seen nor heard of in these bounds; but\nit may not be improper here to relate a circumstance that happened some\ntime thereafter, as it comes no more within the range of this story.\n\nIn the month of October, and the memorable year 1688, it is well known\nthat Clavers hasted southward, with all the troops under his command, to\nassist King James against the Prince of Orange and the protestant party\nof England, or to sell himself to the latter, any of the ways that he\nfound most convenient. In the course of this march, as he was resting\nhis troops at a place called Ninemile-brae, near the Border, a poor\nemaciated and forlorn-looking wretch came to him, and desired to speak a\nword with him. Mr Adam Copland and he were sitting together when this\nhappened; Clavers asked his name and his business, for none of the two\nrecognised him--It was Clerk, the curate (that had been) of Chapelhope\nand Kirkhope! Clavers said, as there were none present save a friend, he\nmight say out his business. This he declined, and took Clavers a short\nway aside. Copland watched their motions, but could not hear what Clerk\nsaid. When he began to tell his story Clavers burst into a violent fit\nof laughter, but soon restrained himself, and Copland beheld him\nknitting his brows, and biting his lip, as he seldom failed to do when\nangry. When they parted, he heard him saying distinctly, \"It is\nimpossible that I can avenge your wrongs at this time, for I have\nmatters of great import before me; but the day may come ere long when it\nwill be in my power, and d--n me if I do not do it!\"\n\nThe spirits of the wild having been victorious, and the reverend curate,\nthe goodwife's only stay, overcome and carried off bodily, she was\nimpatient, and on the rack every minute that she staid longer about the\nhouse. She caused one of her sons take a horse, and conduct her to\nGilmanscleuch that night, to her brother Thomas's farm, determined no\nmore to see Chapelhope till her husband's return; and if that should\nnever take place, to bid it adieu for ever.\n\nNanny went to the led farm of Riskinhope, that being the nearest house\nto Chapelhope, and just over against it, in order to take what care she\nwas able of the things about the house during the day. There also the\ntwo boys remained, and herded throughout the day in a very indifferent\nmanner; and, in short, every thing about the farm was going fast to\nconfusion when Katharine returned from her mission to the Laird of\nDrummelzier. Thus it was that she found her father's house deserted, its\ndoors locked up, and its hearth cold.\n\nHer anxiety to converse privately with Nanny was great; but at her first\nvisit, when she went for the key, this was impossible without being\noverheard. She soon, however, found an opportunity; for that night she\nenticed her into the byre at Chapelhope, in the gloaming, after the kine\nhad left the lone, where a conversation took place between them in\neffect as follows:\n\n\"Alas, Nanny! how has all this happened? Did not the two Covenanters,\nfor whom I sent, come to bear you company?\"\n\n\"Dear bairn, if they did come I saw nae them. If they came, they were\nower late, for the spirits were there afore them; an' I hae seen sic a\nsight! Dear, dear bairn, dinna gar me gang owre it again--I hae seen a\nsight that's enough to turn the heart o' flesh to an iceshogle, an' to\nfreeze up the very springs o' life!--Dinna gar me gang ower it again,\nan' rake up the ashes o' the honoured dead--But what need I say sae? The\ndead are up already! Lord in Heaven be my shield and safeguard!\"\n\n\"Nanny, you affright me; but, be assured, your terrors have originated\nin some mistake--your sight has deceived you, and all shall yet be\nexplained to your satisfaction.\"\n\n\"Say nae sae, dear bairn; my sight hasna deceived me, yet I have been\ndeceived. The world has deceived me--hell has deceived me--and heaven\nhas winked at the deed. Alak, an' wae's me, that it should sae hae been\npredestined afore the world began! The day was, an' no sae lang sin'\nsyne, when I could hae prayed wi' confidence, an' sung wi' joy; but now\nmy mind is overturned, and I hae nouther stay on earth, nor hope in\nheaven! The veil of the Temple may be rent below, and the ark of the\ntestimony thrown open above, but _their_ forms will not be seen within\nthe one, nor their names found written in the other! We have been\ncounted as sheep for the slaughter; we have been killed all the day\nlong; yet hath the Lord forgotten to be gracious, and is his mercy clean\ngone for ever!\"\n\n\"Peace, peace, for Heaven's sake!--You are verging on blasphemy, and\nknow not what you say.\"\n\n\"Do the reprobate know what they say, or can they forbear? How\nthen can I? I, who am in the bond of iniquity, and the jaws of death\neternal?--Where can I fly? When the righteous are not saved, where shall\nthe ungodly and the sinner appear?--Ay, dear bairn, weel may ye stare\nand raise up your hands that gate; but when ye hear my tale, ye winna\nwonder that my poor wits are uprooted. Suppose sic a case your\nain--suppose you had been the bosom companion o' ane for twenty\nyears--had joined wi' him in devotion, e'ening and morning, for a' that\ntime, and had never heard a sigh but for sin, nor a complaint but of the\niniquities of the land--If ye had witnessed him follow two comely sons,\nyour own flesh and blood, to the scaffold, and bless his God who put it\nin their hearts to stand and suffer for his cause, and for the crown of\nmartyrdom he had bestowed on them, and bury the mangled bodies of other\ntwo with tears, but not with repining--If, after a' this, he had been\nhunted as a partridge on the mountains, and for the same dear cause, the\nsimplicity of the truth as it is in Jesus, had laid down his life--If\nyou knew that his grey head was hung upon the city wall for a spectacle\nto gaze at, and his trunk buried in the wild by strangers--Say you knew\nall this, and had all these dear ties in your remembrance, and yet,\nafter long years of hope soon to join their blest society above, to see\nagain that loved and revered form stand before your eyes on earth at\nmidnight, shrivelled, pale, and deformed, and mixed with malevolent\nspirits on dire and revengeful intent, where wad your hope--where wad\nyour confidence--or where wad your wits hae been flown?\" Here she cried\nbitterly; and seizing the astonished Katharine's hand with both hers,\nand pressing it to her brow, she continued her impassioned and frantic\nstrain.--\"Pity me, O dear bairn, pity me! For man hasna pitied me, an'\nGod hasna pitied me! I'm gaun down a floody water, down, down; an' I wad\nfain grip at something, if it were but a swoomin strae, as a last hope,\nor I sink a' thegither.\"\n\n\"These are the words of delirium,\" said Katharine, \"and I will not set\nthem down as spoke by you. Pray the Almighty that they may never be\nwritten in his book of remembrance against you; for the veriest\ndownfallen fiend can do no more than distrust the mercy of God in a\nRedeemer. I tell you, woman, that whatever you may fancy you have seen\nor heard in the darkness of night, when imagination forms fantasies of\nits own, of all those who have stood for our civil and religious\nliberties, who, for the sake of a good conscience, have yielded up all,\nand sealed their testimony with their blood, not one hair of _their_\nheads shall fall to the ground, for their names are written in the book\nof life, and they shall shine as stars in the kingdom of their\nFather. You have yourself suffered much, and have rejoiced in your\nsufferings--So far you did well--Do not then mar so fair an eternal\nharvest--so blest a prospect of a happy and everlasting community, by\nthe sin of despair, that can never be forgiven. Can you, for a moment,\nwhile in possession of your right senses, doubt of the tender mercies of\nyour Maker and Preserver? Can you for a moment believe that he has hid\nhis face from the tears and the blood that have been shed for his cause\nin Scotland? As well may you doubt that the earth bears or the sun warms\nyou, or that he never made a revelation of his will to man.\"\n\nAll the while that Katharine spoke thus, Nanny's eyes were fixed on her,\nas if drinking every word she uttered into a soul that thirsted for it.\nA wild and unstable light beamed on her countenance, but it was still\nonly like a sun-beam breaking through the storm, which is ready to be\nswallowed up by the rolling darkness within. Her head shook as with a\nslight paralytic affection, and she again clasped the hand which she had\nnever quitted.\n\n\"Are ye an angel o' light,\" said she, in a soft tremulous voice, \"that\nye gar my heart prinkle sae wi' a joy that it never thought again to\ntaste? It isna then a strae nor a stibble that I hae grippit at for my\nlast hope, but the tap of a good tow-widdy saugh; an' a young sapling\nthough it be, it is steevely rootit in a good soil, an' will maybe help\nthe poor drowning wretch to the shore!--An' _hae_ I thought sae muckle\nill o' you? Could I deem that mild heavenly face, that's but the\nreflection o' the soul within, the image o' sin and o' Satan, an' a veil\no' deceit thrawn ower a mind prone to wickedness? Forgie me, dear, dear\nsaint, forgie me! It surely canna be condemned spirits that ye are\nconnectit wi? Ah, ye're dumb there!--ye darna answer me to that! Na, na!\nthe spirits o' the just made perfect wad never leave their abodes o'\nfelicity to gabble amang derksome fiends at the dead hour o' the night,\nin sic a world o' sin and sorrow as this. But I saw _him_, an' heard him\nspeak, as sure as I see your face an' hear the tones o' my ain voice;\nan', if I lookit nae wrang, there were mae risen frae the dead than ane.\nIt is an awfu' dispensation to think o'! But there was a spirit o'\nretaliation in him that often made me quake, though never sae as now. O\nwad ye but tell me what kind o' spirits ye are in conjunction wi'?\"\n\n\"None but the blest and the happy--None but they who have come out of\ngreat tribulation, and washed their robes white in the blood of the\nLamb--None that would harbour such a thought, or utter such a doubt, as\nyou have done to-night, for the empire of the universe--More I may not\ntell you at present; but stay you here with me, and I will cherish you,\nand introduce you to these spirits, and you shall be happier with them\nthan ever you have been.\"\n\n\"Will I sae?--Say nae mair!--I wad pit hand to my ain life the night,\nan' risk the warst or I again met wi' them face to face in the same\nguise as I saw them at midnight last week. Ye're a wonderfu' creature!\nBut ye're ayont my depth; therefore I'll love ye, an' fear ye, an' keep\nmy distance.\"\n\nThus they parted: Katharine into her long vacant house, and Nanny over\nto Riskinhope. The farmer of Riskinhope (David Bryden of Eldin-hope),\nwas ruined by the sequestration of his stock by Clavers, but the\nshepherds and other servants still lingered about the house for better\nor for worse. There was not a sheep on that large farm, save about five\nscores of good ewes, that Davie Tait, the herd of Whithope, had turned\nslyly over into the hags of the Yokeburn-head, that day the drivers took\naway the stock. When Clavers made his last raid up by Chapelhope, all\nthe family of Riskinhope fled to the hills, and betook them to cover,\nevery one by himself; and there, with beating hearts, peeped through the\nheath and the rash-bush, to watch the motions of that bloody persecutor.\nPerilous was their case that day, for had any of them been found in that\nsituation, it would have been enough; but Davie well knew it was good\nfor him to keep out of the way, for Mr Renwick, and Mr Shields, as well\nas other wanderers, had been sheltered in his house many a night, and\nthe latter wrote his _Hind let Loose_ in a small house at the side of\nWinterhopeburn. Yet Davie was not a Cameronian, properly speaking, nor a\nvery religious man neither; but the religious enthusiasm of his guests\nhad broke him a little into their manner, and way of thinking. He had\nlearned to make family exercise, not however to very great purpose, for\nthe only thing very remarkable in it was the strong nasal Cameronian\nwhine of his prayer, and its pastoral allusions; but he was grown fond\nof exhibiting in that line, having learned the Martyr's tune, and the\nsecond part of the Dundee, which formed the whole range of his psalmody!\nYet Davie liked a joke as well as ever he did, and perhaps as well as\nany part of divine worship. When one remarked to him that his family\nmusic was loud enough, but very discordant,--\"Ay,\" quoth Davie, \"but\nit's a lang gate atween here an' Heaven; a' music's good i' the\ndistance; I hae strong faith in that. I hae some hope i' Dan's bass too;\nit has _great effect_. I was wantin him to tak some salts an' sinny leaf\nto help it a wee.\"\n\nThat night after Nanny came over, Davie had prayed as usual, and among\nother things, had not forgot the Brownie of Bodsbeck, that \"he might be\nskelpit wi' the taws o' divine wrath, an' sent back to hell wi' the\nsperks on his hips; and that the angel of presence might keep watch over\ntheir couches that night, to scare the howlaty face o' him away, an'\nlearn him to keep his ain side o' the water.\"\n\nAfter prayers the family were crowded round the fading ingle, and\ncracking of the Brownie and of Davie's prayer. Davie had opened his\nwaistcoat, and thrown off his hose to warm his feet, and, flattered\nwith their remarks on his abilities, began to be somewhat scurrilous on\nBrownie. \"I think I hae cowed him the night,\" said he; \"he'll fash nane\no' us--he may stay wi' his Keatie Laidlaw yonder, an' rin at her biddin.\nHe has a sonsy weel-faur'd lass to bide wi'--he's better aff than some\no' his neighbours, Maysey;\" and, saying so, he cast a look to his wife\nthat spoke unutterable things; but finding that his joke did not take,\nafter so serious a prayer, he turned again on Brownie, and, as his own\nwife said, \"didna leave him the likeness of a dog.\" He said he had eaten\nsax bowes o' good meal to the goodman, an' a' that he had done for't,\nthat ony body kend o', was mending up an auld fail-dike round the corn\nae night. In short, he said he was an unprofitable guest--a dirty\ndroich, an' a menseless glutton--an' it was weak an' silly in ony true\nChristian to be eiry for him. He had not said out the last words, when\nthey heard a whispering at the door, and shortly after these words\ndistinctly uttered:\n\n    \"There's neither blood nor rown-tree pin,\n    At open doors the dogs go in.\"\n\nThe size of every eye's orbit was doubled in a moment, as it turned\ntowards the door. The light of the fire was shining bright along the\nshort entry between the beds, and they saw the appearance of a man,\nclothed in black, come slowly and deliberately in, walk across the\nentry, and go into the apartment in the other end of the house. The\nfamily were all above one another in beyond the fire in an instant, and\nstruggling who to be undermost, and next the wall. Nanny, who was\nsitting on the form beyond the fire, pondering on other matters, leaning\nher brow on both hands, and all unconscious of what had entered, was\noverborne in the crush, and laid flat undermost of all.\n\n\"Dear, dear bairns, what's asteer? Hout fy! Why, troth, ye'll crush the\npoor auld body as braid as a blood-kercake.\"\n\n\"Ah! the Brownie!--the Brownie!--the Brownie o' Bodsbeck!\" was whispered\nin horror from every tongue.\n\nDavie Tait luckily recollecting that there was a door at hand, that led\nto a little milk-house in the other end of the house, and still another\ndivision farther from Brownie, led the way to it on all four, at full\ngallop, and took shelter in the farthest corner of that. All the rest\nwere soon above him, but Davie bore the oppressive weight with great\nfortitude for some time, and without a murmur. Nanny was left last; she\nkept hold of the Bible that she had in her lap when she fell, and had\nlikewise the precaution to light the lamp before she followed her\naffrighted associates. Nothing could be more appalling than her own\nentry after them--never was a figure more calculated to inspire terror,\nthan Nanny coming carrying a feeble glimmering lamp, that only served to\nmake darkness visible, while her pale raised-like features were bent\nover it, eager to discover her rueful compeers. The lamp was\nhalf-covered with her hand to keep it from being blown out; and her\nface, where only a line of light here and there was visible, was\naltogether horrible. Having discovered the situation, and the plight of\nthe family, she bolted the door behind her, and advanced slowly up to\nthem. \"Dear bairns, what did ye see that has putten ye a' this gate?\"\n\n\"Lord sauf us!\" cried Davie, from below, \"we hae forespoke the\nBrownie--tak that elbow out o' my guts a wee bit. They say, if ye speak\no' the deil, he'll appear. 'Tis an unsonsy and dangerous thing to--Wha's\naught that knee? slack it a little. God guide us, sirs, there's the\nweight of a mill-stane on aboon the links o' my neck. If the Lord hae\nforsaken us, an' winna heed our prayers, we may gie up a' for tint\nthegither!--Nanny, hae ye boltit the door.\"\n\n\"Ay hae I, firm an' fast.\"\n\n\"Than muve up a wee, sirs, or faith I'm gane--Hech-howe! the weight o'\nsin an' mortality that's amang ye.\"\n\nDavie's courage, that had begun to mount on hearing that the door was\nbolted, soon gave way again, when he raised his head, and saw the utter\ndismay that was painted on each countenance. \"Hout, Maysey woman, dinna\njust mak sic faces--ye are eneuch to fright fock, foreby aught else,\"\nsaid he to his wife.\n\n\"O Davie, think what a wheen poor helpless creatures we are!--Does\nBrownie ever kill ony body?\"\n\n\"I wish it be nae a waur thing than Brownie,\" said Dan.\n\n\"Waur than Brownie? Mercy on us!--Waur than Brownie!--What was it like?\"\nwas whispered round.\n\n\"Ye mind poor Kirko, the bit Dinscore laird, that skulkit hereabouts sae\nlang, an' sleepit several nights ben in that end?--Didna ye a' think it\nwas unco like him?\"\n\n\"The very man!--the very man!--his make, his gang, his claes, an' every\nthing,\" was echoed by all.\n\n\"An' ye ken,\" continued Dan, \"that he was shot on Dumfries sands this\nsimmer. It is his ghaist come to haunt the place whar he baid, an'\nprayed sae aften.\"\n\n\"Ower true! Ower true! it's awsome to think o',\" was the general remark.\n\n\"Let us go to prayers,\" said Nanny: \"it isna a time to creep into nooks\non aboon other, an' gie way to despair. There is but Ane that _can_\nguard or protect us, let us apply there.\"\n\n\"Something has been done that way already,\" said Davie Tait; \"we canna\ncome to handygrips wi' him, an' force him to stand senter at our door a'\nnight.\"\n\nDavie's matter was exhausted on the subject, and he did not much relish\ngoing over the same words again, which, he acknowledged, were _rather\nkenspeckle_; nor yet to venture on composing new ones out of his own\nhead: this made him disposed to waive Nanny's proposal.\n\n\"Ay,\" answered she, \"but we mauna haud just wi' saying gie us this, an'\ngie us that; and than, because we dinna just get it aff loof, drap the\nplea an' despair. Na, na, dear bairns, that's nae part o' the christian\nwarfare! we maun plead wi' humility, and plead again, an' never was\nthere mair cause for rousing to exertion than now. The times are\nmomentous, and some great change is drawing near, for the dead are\nastir--I have seen them mysel'. Yes, the severed members that were\nscattered, and buried apart, are come thegither again--joined, an' gaun\naboon the grund, mouthing the air o' Heaven. I saw it mysel--Can it be\nthat the resurrection is begun? It is a far away thought for the thing\nitsel to be as near; but it's a glorious ane, an' there's proof o't. But\nthen the place an' the time are doubtfu'--had it been sun proof I wad\nhae likit it better. We little wot what to say or think under sic\nvisitations. Let us apply to the only source of light and direction.\nDavid, be you a mouth to us.\"\n\n\"A mouth?\" said Davie; but recollecting himself, added--\"Hum, I\nunderstand you; but I hae mouthed mair already than has come to ony\ngood. I like fock to pray that hae some chance to be heard; some fock\nmay scraugh themsels hersh, and be nae the better.\"\n\n\"Oh fie, David! speak wi' some reverence,\" said his wife Maysey.\n\n\"I mintit at naething else,\" said he, \"but I hae an unreverent kind o'\ntongue that nought ever serous-like fa's frae, let my frame o' mind be\nas it will; an' troth I haena command o' language for a job like this. I\ntrow the prelates hae the best way after a', for they get prayers ready\nmade to their hands, an' disna need to affront their Maker wi'\nblunders.\"\n\n\"How can ye speak sae the night, David? or how can sic a thought hover\nround your heart as to flee out at random that gate? If ye will _read_\nprayers, there's a book, read them out o' that; if the words o' God\nwinna suit the cases o' his ain creatures, how can ye trow the words o'\nanother man can do it? But pray wi' the heart, an' pray in humility, and\nfearna being accepted.\"\n\n\"That's true; but yet ane maks but a poor figure wi' the heart by\nitsel.\"\n\n\"Wow, Davie, man,\" quoth Maysey, his wife, \"an' ye mak but a poor figure\nindeed, when we're a' in sic a plight! Ye hear the woman speaks gude\ntruth; an' ye ken yoursel ye fenced us against the Brownie afore, but no\nagainst Kirky's ghaist; tak the beuk like a man, an' pit the fence o'\nscripture faith round us for that too.\"\n\nStupid as Maysey was, she knew the way to her husband's heart. Davie\ncould not resist such an appeal--he took the Bible; sung the 143d psalm,\nfrom beginning to end, at Nanny's request; and likewise, by her\ndirection, read the 20th of Revelations; then kneeling down on his bare\nknees, legs, and feet, as he fled from the kitchen, on the damp miry\nfloor of the milk-house, he essayed a strong energetic prayer as a fence\nagainst the invading ghost. But as Davie acknowledged, he had an\nirreverend expression naturally, that no effort could overcome, (and by\nthe bye, there is more in this than mankind are in general aware of,)\nand the more he aimed at sublimity, the more ludicrous he grew, even to\ncommon ears. There is scarcely a boy in the country who cannot recite\nscraps of Davie Tait's prayer; but were I to set all that is preserved\nof it down here, it might be construed as a mockery of that holy\nordinance, than which nothing is so far from my heart or intention; but,\nconvinced as I am that a rude exhibition in such a divine solemnity is\nof all things the most indecent and unbecoming, I think such should be\nheld up to ridicule, as a warning to all Christians never to ask\nignorance or absurdity to perform this sacred duty in public. The\nsublime part of it therefore is given, which was meant as a fence\nagainst the spirit that had set up his rest so near. To such as are not\nacquainted with the pastoral terms, the meaning in some parts may be\nequivocal; to those who are, the train of thinking will be obvious.--It\nis part of a genuine prayer.\n\n    \"But the last time we gathered oursels before thee, we left out a\n    wing o' the hirsel by mistake, an' thou hast paid us hame i' our\n    ain coin. Thou wart sae gude than as come to the sheddin thysel,\n    an' clap our heads, an' whisper i' our lugs, 'dinna be\n    disheartened, my puir bits o' waefu' things, for though ye be the\n    shotts o' my hale fauld, I'll take care o' ye, an' herd ye, an'\n    gie ye a' that ye hae askit o' me the night.' It was kind, an'\n    thou hast done it; but we forgot a principal part, an' maun tell\n    thee now, that we have had another visitor sin' ye war here, an'\n    ane wha's back we wad rather see than his face. Thou kens better\n    thysel than we can tell thee what place he has made his escape\n    frae; but we sair dread it is frae the boddomless pit, or he wadna\n    hae ta'en possession but leave. Ye ken, that gang tried to keep\n    vilent leasehaud o' your ain fields, an' your ain ha', till ye gae\n    them a killicoup. If he be ane o' them, O come thysel to our help,\n    an' bring in thy hand a bolt o' divine vengeance, het i' the\n    furnace o' thy wrath as reed as a nailstring, an' bizz him an'\n    scouder him till ye dinna leave him the likeness of a paper izel,\n    until he be glad to creep into the worm-holes o' the earth, never\n    to see sun or sterns mair. But, if it be some puir dumfoundered\n    soul that has been bumbased and stoundit at the view o' the lang\n    Hopes an' the Downfa's o' Eternity, comed daundering away frae\n    about the laiggen girds o' Heaven to the waefu' gang that he left\n    behind, like a lost sheep that strays frae the rich pastures o'\n    the south, an' comes bleating back a' the gate to its cauld native\n    hills, to the very gair where it was lambed and first followed\n    its minny, ane canna help haeing a fellow-feeling wi' the puir\n    soul after a', but yet he'll find himsel here like a cow in an\n    unco loan. Therefore, O furnish him this night wi' the wings o'\n    the wild gainner or the eagle, that he may swoof away back to a\n    better hame than this, for we want nane o' his company. An' do\n    thou give to the puir stray thing a weel-hained heff and a beildy\n    lair, that he may nae mair come straggling amang a stock that's\n    sae unlike himsel, that they're frightit at the very look o' him.\n\n    \"Thou hast promised in thy Word to be our shepherd, our guider\n    an' director; an' thy word's as gude as some men's aith, an' we'll\n    haud thee at it. Therefore take thy plaid about thee, thy staff in\n    thy hand, an' thy dog at thy fit, an' gather us a' in frae the\n    cauld windy knowes o' self-conceit--the plashy bogs an' mires o'\n    sensuality, an' the damp flows o' worldly-mindedness, an' wyse us\n    a' into the true bught o' life, made o' the flakes o' forgiveness\n    and the door o' loving-kindness; an' never do thou suffer us to be\n    heftit e'ening or morning, but gie lashin' meals o' the milk o'\n    praise, the ream o' thankfu'ness, an' the butter o' good-works.\n    An' do thou, in thy good time an' way, smear us ower the hale bouk\n    wi' the tar o' adversity, weel mixed up wi' the meinging of\n    repentance, that we may be kiver'd ower wi' gude bouzy shake-rough\n    fleeces o' faith, a' run out on the hips, an' as brown as a tod.\n    An' do thou, moreover, fauld us ower-night, an' every night, in\n    within the true sheep-fauld o' thy covenant, weel buggen wi' the\n    stanes o' salvation, an' caped wi' the divots o' grace. An' then\n    wi' sic a shepherd, an' sic a sheep-fauld, what hae wi' to be\n    feared for? Na, na! we'll fear naething but sin!--We'll never mair\n    scare at the poolly-woolly o' the whaup, nor swirl at the gelloch\n    o' the ern; for if the arm of our Shepherd be about us for good,\n    a' the imps, an' a' the powers o' darkness, canna wrang a hair o'\n    our tails.\"\n\nAll the family arose from their knees with altered looks. Thus fenced, a\nnew energy glowed in every breast. Poor Maysey, proud of her husband's\nbold and sublime intercession, and trusting in the divine fence now\nraised around them, rose with the tear in her eye, seized the lamp, and\nled the way, followed by all the rest, to retake the apartment of\nKirky's ghost by open assault. Nanny, whose faith wont to be superior to\nall these things, lagged behind, dreading to see the sight that she had\nseen on the Saturday night before; and the bold intercessor himself kept\nher company, on pretence of a sleeping leg; but, in truth, his faith in\nhis own intercession and fence did not mount very high. All the\napartment was searched--every chest, corner, and hole that could be\nthought of--every thing was quiet, and not so much as a mouse\nstirring!--not a bed-cover folded down, nor the smallest remembered\narticle missing! All the family saw Kirky's ghost enter in his own\nlikeness, and heard him speak in his wonted tongue, except old Nanny. It\nwas a great and wonderful victory gained. They were again in full\npossession of their own house, a right which they never seemed before to\nhave duly appreciated. They felt grateful and happy; and it was hinted\nby Maysey, Dan, and uncle Nicholas, that Davie Tait would turn out a\nburning and a shining light in these dark and dismal times, and would\nsupersede Messrs Renwick, Shields, and all the curates in the country.\nHe had laid a visible ghost, that might be the devil for aught they knew\nto the contrary; and it was argued on all hands, that \"Davie was nae\nsma' drink.\"\n\nThe whole of the simple group felt happy and grateful; and they agreed\nto sit another hour or two before they went to sleep, and each one read\na chapter from the Bible, and recite a psalm or hymn. They did so, until\nit came to Nanny's turn.\n\n[Music: A Cameronian's Midnight Hymn.\n\n    O thou who dwell'st in the heavens high,\n    Above yon Stars and within yon Sky,\n    Where the dazzling fields never needed light,\n    Of the Sun by day nor the Moon by night,\n    Where the dazzling fields never needed light,\n    Of the Sun by day nor the Moon by night.\n]\n\nShe laid her hands across each other on her breast, turned in the balls\nof her half-closed eyes so that nothing was seen but the white, and,\nwith her face raised upwards, and a slow rocking motion, she sung the\nfollowing hymn, to a strain the most solemn that ever was heard. A scrap\nof this ancient melody is still preserved, and here subjoined, for\nwithout its effect the words are nothing.\n\n    O thou, who dwell'st in the heavens high,\n    Above yon stars, and within yon sky,\n    Where the dazzling fields never needed light\n    Of the sun by day, nor the moon by night!\n\n    Though shining millions around thee stand,\n    For the sake of one that's at thy right hand,\n    O think of them that have cost him dear,\n    Still chained in doubt and in darkness here!\n\n    Our night is dreary, and dim our day;\n    And if thou turn'st thy face away,\n    We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust,\n    And have none to look to, and none to trust.\n\n    The powers of darkness are all abroad,\n    They own no Saviour, and fear no God;\n    And we are trembling in dumb dismay,\n    O turn not thus thy face away!\n\n    Our morning dawn is with clouds o'erspread,\n    And our evening fall is a bloody red;\n    And the groans are heard on the mountain swarth;\n    There is blood in heaven, and blood on earth.\n\n    A life of scorn for us thou did'st lead,\n    And in the grave laid thy blessed head;\n    Then think of those who undauntedly\n    Have laid down life and all for thee.\n\n    Thou wilt not turn them forth in wrath,\n    To walk this world of sin and death,\n    In shadowy dim deformity?\n    O God it may not--cannot be!\n\n    Thy aid, O mighty One, we crave!\n    Not shortened is thy arm to save.\n    Afar from thee we now sojourn\n    Return to us, O God, return!\n\nThis air, having a great resemblance to the tone and manner in which the\nold Cameronians said, or rather sung their prayers, and just no more\nmusic in it, as the singer will perceive, than what renders the\nrecitation more slow and solemn, Nanny's hymn affected the family group\nin no ordinary degree; it made the hairs of their head creep, and\nthrilled their simple hearts, easily impressed by divine things, while\ntheir looks strongly expressed their feelings. None of them would read\nor recite any thing farther, but entreated Nanny to say it over again,\naffirming, with one voice that \"it was an _extrodnar_ thing.\"\n\n\"Ah! dear, dear bairns! I dinna ken about it,\" said she; \"he was a good\ncannie lad that made it, but he mixed wi' the scoffers, and turned to\nhae his doubts and his failings like mony ane, (Lord forgie us a' for\nour share in them;) he seems even to have doubted o' the Omnipresence\nwhen he penned that, which was far far wrang. I'll rather say ye ane on\nthat subject that he had made when in a better way o' thinking. It is\nsaid that the Englishes sing it in their chapels.\"\n\nShe then attempted one in a bolder and more regular strain, but wanting\nthe simplicity of the former, it failed in having the same effect. As\nit, however, closed the transactions of that momentous night at\nRiskinhope, we shall with it close this long chapter.\n\n    Dweller in heaven and ruler below!\n    Fain would I know thee, yet tremble to know!\n    How can a mortal deem, how may it be,\n    That being can not be, but present with thee?\n    Is it true that thou saw'st me ere I saw the morn?\n    Is it true that thou knew'st me before I was born?\n    That nature must live in the light of thine eye?\n    This knowledge for me is too great and too high!\n\n    That fly I to noon-day, or fly I to night,\n    To shroud me in darkness, or bathe me in light,\n    The light and the darkness to thee are the same,\n    And still in thy presence of wonder I am?\n    Should I with the dove to the desert repair;\n    Or dwell with the eagle in clough of the air;\n    In the desart afar, on the mountain's wild brink,\n    From the eye of Omnipotence still must I shrink?\n\n    Or mount I on wings of the morning away\n    To caves of the ocean unseen by the day,\n    And hide in these uttermost parts of the sea,\n    Even there to be living and moving in thee?\n    Nay, scale I the cloud in the heavens to dwell;\n    Or make I my bed in the shadows of hell;\n    Can science expound, or humanity frame,\n    That still thou art present, and all are the same?\n\n    Yes, present for ever! Almighty--alone\n    Great Spirit of nature, unbounded, unknown!\n    What mind can embody thy presence divine?\n    I know not my own being! how can I thine?\n    Then humbly and low in the dust let me bend,\n    And adore what on earth I can ne'er comprehend;\n    The mountains may melt, and the elements flee,\n    Yet an universe still be rejoicing in thee!\n\n\nEND OF VOLUME FIRST.\n\n    EDINBURGH:\n    Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes\n\nThere is one page of music in the book; the html version of this\nfile has links to a midi file ([Listen]); the musical notation ([PDF]);\nand and a MusicXML file ([XML]), which can be viewed in most browsers,\ntext editors, and music notation applications.\n\nThe book has no chapter VII and two chapters XII.\n\nA duplicate heading before chapter one (\"THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK\") has\nbeen removed.\n\n\nThe following are inconsistently used in the text:\n\nQuave Brae and Quave-Brae\n\nmeantime and mean time\n\nday-light and daylight\n\neye-brow and eyebrow\n\nmoon-light and moonlight\n\nway-laid and waylaid\n\nM'Leadle and MacLeadle\n\nTallo-Lins and Tallo-Linns\n\ncleuch-brae and Cleuch-brae\n\nClark and Clerk\n\nClavers and Claverhouse\n\n\nObvious punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected as follows:\n\np. 30 \"Several witnessess\" changed to \"Several witnesses\"\n\np. 43 \"'Now, billies, says I, ye\" changed to \"'Now, billies,' says\nI, 'ye\"\n\np. 43 \"gar ye speak.\" changed to \"gar ye speak.'\"\n\np. 44 \"shabbles o' swords!\"\" changed to \"shabbles o' swords!'\"\n\np. 44 \"light o'the truth\" changed to \"light o' the truth\"\n\np. 56 (note) \"Christ in Scotland_. It is dated\" changed to \"Christ in\nScotland_.\" It is dated\"\n\np. 131 \"proffers proved alike in vain\" changed to \"proffers proved\nalike in vain.\"\n\np. 145 \"the everlasting Covenant,\" changed to \"the everlasting\nCovenant,'\"\n\np. 160 \"night-time, beats a,'\" changed to \"night-time, beats a',\"\n\np. 161 \"cried Maron,\"--\"Dear\" changed to \"cried Maron,--\"Dear\"\n\np. 211 \"power to make a handle o\" changed to \"power to make a\nhandle o'\"\n\np. 217 \"appresion\" changed to \"apprehension\"\n\np. 243 \"head the creature, man,'\" changed to \"head the creature, man,\"\"\n\np. 275 \"to be eiry for him.\"\" changed to \"to be eiry for him.\"\n\n\nSome possible errors have been left unchanged:\n\np. 189 \"had for sometime been hopping down\"\n\np. 196 \"further precedure soon\"","title":"The Brownie of Bodsbeck, and Other Tales (Vol. 1 of 2)","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":50351}