CHAPTER X

But see, his face is black, and full of blood ; His eye-balls farther out than when he lived, Staring full ghastly like a strangled man ; His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling, His hands abroad display'd, as one that gasp'd And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdued. Henry [V. Part I.
Tue Sheriff-depute of the county arrived at Ellangowan next morning by daybreak. To this provincial magistrate the law of Scotland assigns judicial powers of considerable extent, and the task of inquiring into all crimes committed within his jurisdiction, the apprehension and commitment of suspected persons, and so forth.?
The gentleman who held the office in the shire of at the time of this catastrophe, was well born and well educated ; and, though somewhat pedantic and professional in his habits, he enjoyed general respect as an active and intelligent magis-
1 Death-agony. ‘ ; 2 The Scottish Sheriff discharges, on such occasions as that now mentioned, pretty much the same duty as a Coroner,
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trate. His first employment was to examine all witnesses whose evidence could throw light upon this mysterious event, and make up the written report, proces verbal, or precognition, as it is technically called, which the practice of Scotland has substituted for a coroner’s inquest. Under the Sheriff's minute and skilful inquiry, many circumstances appeared, which seemed incompatible with the original opinion, that Kennedy had accidentally fallen from the cliffs. We shall briefly detail some of these.
The body had been deposited in a neighbouring fisher-hut, but without altering the condition in which it was found. This was the first object of the Sheriffs examination. Though fearfully crushed and mangled by the fall from such a height, the corpse was found to exhibit a deep cut in the head, which, in the opinion of a skilful surgeon, must have been inflicted by a broadsword, or cutlass. The experience of this gentleman discovered other suspicious indications. The face was much blackened, the eyes distorted, and the veins of the neck swelled. A coloured handkerchief, which the unfortunate man had worn round his neck, did not present the usual appearance, but was much loosened, and the knot displaced and dragged extremely tight: the folds were also compressed, as if it had been used as a means of grappling the deceased, and dragging him perhaps to the pre- cipice.
On the other hand, poor Kennedy’s purse was found un- touched; and, what seemed yet more extraordinary, the pistols which he usually carried when about to encounter any hazardous adventure, were found in his pockets loaded. This appeared particularly strange, for he was known and dreaded by the contraband traders as a man equally fearless and dexterous in the use of his weapons, of which he had given many isignal proofs. The Sheriff inquired, whether Kennedy was not in the practice of carrying any other arms? Most of Mr. Bertram’s servants recollected that he generally had a couteau de chasse, or short hanger, but none such was found upon the dead body; nor could those who had seen him on the morning of the fatal day, take it upon them to assert whether he then carried that weapon or not.
The corpse afforded no other zmdicia respecting the fate of Kennedy; for, though the clothes were much displaced, and the limbs dreadfully fractured, the one seemed the probable, the other the certain, consequences of such a fall. The
Guy Mannering 77 hands of the deceased were clenched fast, and full of turf and earth; but this also seemed equivocal.
The magistrate then proceeded to the place where the corpse was first discovered, and made those who had found it give, upon the spot, a particular and detailed account of the manner in which it was lying. A large fragment of the rock appeared to have accompanied, or followed, the fall of the victim from the cliff above. It was of so solid and compact a substance, that it had fallen without any great diminution by splintering, so that the Sheriff was enabled, first, to estimate the weight by measurement, and then to calculate, from the appearance of the fragment, what portion of it had been bedded into the cliff from which it had descended. This was easily detected, by the raw appear- ance of the stone where it had not been exposed to the atmosphere. They then ascended the cliff, and surveyed the place from whence the stony fragment had fallen. It seemed plain, from the appearance of the bed, that the mere weight of one man standing upon the projecting part of the fragment, supposing it in its original situation, could not have destroyed its balance, and precipitated it, with himself, from the cliff. At the same time, it appeared to have lain so loose, that the use of a lever, or the combined strength of three or four men, might easily have hurled it from its position. The short turf about the brink of the precipice was much trampled, as if stamped by the heels of men in a mortal struggle, or in the act of some violent exertion. Traces of the same kind, less visibly marked, guided the sagacious investigator to the verge of the copsewood, which, in that place, crept high up the bank towards the top of the precipice.
With patience and perseverance, they traced these marks into the thickest part of the copse, a route which no person would have voluntarily adopted, unless for the purpose of concealment. Here they found plain vestiges of violence and struggling, from space to space. Small boughs were torn down, as if grasped by some resisting wretch who was dragged forcibly along; the ground, where in the least degree soft or marshy, showed the print of many feet; there were vestiges also, which might be those of human blood. At any rate, it was certain that several persons must have forced their passage among the oaks, hazels, and underwood, with which they were mingled; and in some places appeared traces, as
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if a sack full of grain, a dead body, or something of that heavy and solid description, had been dragged along the ground. In one part of the thicket there was a small swamp, the clay of which was whitish, being probably mixed with marl. The back of Kennedy’s coat appeared besmeared with stains of the same colour.
At length, about a quarter of a mile from the brink of the fatal precipice, the traces conducted them to a small open space of ground, very much trampled, and plainly stained with blood, although withered leaves had been strewed upon the spot, and other means hastily taken to efface the marks, which seemed obviously to have been derived from a despe- rate affray. On one side of this patch of open ground, was found the sufferers naked hanger, which seemed to have been thrown into the thicket; on the other, the belt and sheath, which appeared to have been hidden with more leisurely care and precaution.
The magistrate caused the footprints which marked this spot to be carefully measured and examined. Some corre- sponded to the foot of the unhappy victim ; some were larger, some less ; indicating, that at least four or five men had been busy around him. Above all, here, and here only, were observed the vestiges of a child’s foot; and as it could be seen nowhere else, and the hard horse-track which traversed the wood of Warroch was contiguous to the spot, it was natural to think that the boy might have escaped in that direction during the confusion. But as he was never heard of, the Sheriff, who made a careful entry of all these memo- randa, did not suppress his opinion, that the deceased had met with foul play, and that the murderers, whoever they were, had possessed themselves of the person of the child Harry Bertram.
Every exertion was now made to discover the criminals. Suspicion hesitated between the smugglers and the gipsies. The fate of Dirk Hatteraick’s vessel was certain. Two men from the opposite side of Warroch Bay (so the inlet on the southern side of the Point of Warroch is called) had seen, though at a great distance, the lugger drive eastward, after doubling the headland, and, as they judged from her manceuvres, in a disabled state. Shortly after, they per- ceived that she grounded, smoked, and, finally, took fire. She was, as one of them expressed himself, im a light low (bright flame) when they observed a king’s ship, with her
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colours up, heave in sight from behind the cape. The guns of the burning vessel discharged themselves as the fire reached them; and they saw her, at length, blow up with a great explosion. The sloop of war kept aloof for her own safety; and, after hovering till the other exploded, stood away southward under a press of sail. The Sheriff anxiously interrogated these men whether any boats had left the vessel. They could not say—they had seen none—but they might have put off in such a direction as placed the burning vessel, and the thick smoke which floated landward from it, between their course and the witnesses’ observation.
That the ship destroyed was Dirk Hatteraick’s, no one doubted. His lugger was well known on the coast, and had been expected just at this time. A letter from the com- mander of the king’s sloop, to whom the Sheriff made application, put the matter beyond doubt; he sent also an extract from his log-book of the transactions of the day, which intimated their being on the outlook for a smuggling lugger, Dirk Hatteraick master, upon the information and requisition of Francis Kennedy, of his Majesty’s excise ser- vice ; and that Kennedy was to be upon the outlook on the shore, in case Hatteraick, who was known to be a desperate fellow, and had been repeatedly outlawed, should attempt to run his sloop aground. About nine o’clock a.m. they dis- covered a sail, which answered the description of Hatteraick’s vessel, chased her, and after repeated signals to her to show colours and bring-to, fired upon her. The chase then showed Hamburgh colours, and returned the fire; and a running fight was maintained for three hours, when, just as the lugger was doubling the Point of Warroch, they observed that the main-yard was shot in the slings, and that the vessel was disabled. It was not in the power of the man-of-war’s men for some time to profit by this circumstance, owing to their having kept too much in-shore for doubling the headland. After two tacks, they accomplished this, and observed the chase on fire, and apparently deserted. The fire having reached some casks of spirits, which were placed on the deck, with other combustibles, probably on purpose, burnt with such fury, that no boats durst approach the vessel, especially as her shotted guns were discharging, one after another, by the heat. The captain had no doubt whatever that the crew had set the vessel on fire, and escaped in their boats. After watching the conflagration till the ship blew up,
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his Majesty’s sloop, the Shar, stood towards the Isle of Man, with the purpose of intercepting the retreat of the smugglers, who, though they might conceal themselves in the woods for a day or two, would probably take the first opportunity of endeavouring to make for this asylum. But they never saw more of them than is above narrated.
Such was the account given by William Pritchard, master and commander of his Majesty’s sloop of war, Shark, who concluded by regretting deeply that he had not had the happiness to fall in with the scoundrels who had had the im- pudence to fire on his Majesty’s flag, and with an assurance, that, should he meet Mr. Dirk Hatteraick in any future cruise, he would not fail to bring him into port under his stern, to answer whatever might be alleged against him.
As, therefore, it seemed tolerably certain that the men on board the lugger had escaped, the death of Kennedy, if he fell in with them in the woods, when irritated by the loss of their vessel, and by the share he had in it, was easily to be accounted for. And it was not improbable, that to such brutal tempers, rendered desperate by their own circum- stances, even the murder of the child, against whose father, as having become suddenly active in the prosecution of smugglers, Hatteraick was known to have uttered deep threats, would not appear a very heinous crime.
Against this hypothesis it was urged, that a crew of fifteen or twenty men could not have lain hidden upon the coast, when so close a search took place immediately after the destruction of their vessel; or, at least, that if they had hid themselves in the woods, their boats must have been seen on the beach ;—that in such precarious circumstances, and when all retreat must have seemed difficult, if not impossible, it was not to be thought that they would have all united to commit a useless murder, for the mere sake of revenge. Those who held this opinion, supposed, either that the boats of the lugger had stood out to sea without being observed by those who were intent upon gazing at the burning vessel, and so gained safe distance before the sloop got round the head- land; or else, that, the boats being staved or destroyed by the fire of the Shark during the chase, the crew had obstin- ately determined to perish with the vessel. What gave some countenance to this supposed act of desperation was, that neither Dirk Hatteraick nor any of his sailors, all well-known men in the fair-trade, were again seen upon that coast, or
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heard of in the Isle of Man, where strict inquiry was made. On the other hand, only one dead body, apparently that of a seaman killed by a cannon-shot, drifted ashore. So all that could be done was to register the names, description, and appearance of the individuals belonging to the ship’s com- pany, and offer a reward for the apprehension of them, or any one of them; extending also to any person, not the actual murderer, who should give evidence tending to convict those who had murdered Francis Kennedy.
Another opinion, which was also plausibly supported, went to charge this horrid crime upon the late tenants of Dern- cleugh. ‘They were known to have resented highly the con- duct of the Laird of Ellangowan towards them, and to have used threatening expressions, which every one supposed them capable of carrying into effect. The kidnapping the child was a crime much more consistent with their habits than with those of smugglers, and his temporary guardian might have fallen in an attempt to protect him. Besides it was remem- bered that Kennedy had been an active agent, two or three days before, in the forcible expulsion of these people from Derncleugh, and that harsh and menacing language had been exchanged between him and some of the Egyptian patriarchs on that memorable occasion.
The Sheriff received also the depositions of the unfortunate father and his servant, concerning what had passed at their meeting the caravan of gipsies as they left the estate of Ellan- gowan. The speech of Meg Merrilies seemed particularly suspicious. There was, as the magistrate observed in his law language, damnum minatum—a damage, or evil turn, threatened, and ma/um secutum—an evil of the very kind pre- dicted shortly afterwards following. A young woman, who had been gathering nuts in Warroch wood upon the fatal day, was also strongly of opinion, though she declined to make positive oath, that she had seen Meg Merrilies, at least a woman of her remarkable size and appearaNte start suddenly out of a thicket—she said she had called to her by name, but, as the figure turned from her, and made no answer, she was uncertain if it were the gipsy, or her wraith, and was afraid to go nearer to one who was always reckoned, in the vulgar phrase, xo canny. ‘This vague story received some corrobora- tion from the circumstance of a fire being that evening found in the gipsy’s deserted cottage. To this fact Ellangowan and his gardener bore evidence. Yet it seemed extravagant to
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suppose, that, had this woman been accessory to such a dreadful crime, she would have returned that very evening on which it was committed, to the place, of all others, where she was most likely to be sought after.
Meg Merrilies was, however, apprehended and examined. She denied strongly having been either at Derncleugh or in the wood of Warroch upon the day of Kennedy’s death ; and several of her tribe made oath in her behalf, that she had never quitted their encampment, which was in a glen about ten miles distant from Ellangowan. Their oaths were indeed little to be trusted to; but what other evidence could be had in the circumstances? There was one remarkable fact, and only one, which arose from her examination, Her arm appeared to be slightly wounded by the cut of a sharp weapon, and was tied up with a handkerchief of Harry Bertram’s. But the chief of the horde acknowledged he had “corrected her” that day with his whinger—she herself, and others, gave the same account of her hurt; and, for the handkerchief, the quantity of linen stolen from Ellangowan during the last months of their residence on the estate, easily accounted for it, without charging Meg with a more heinous crime.
It was observed upon her examination, that she treated the questions respecting the death of Kennedy, or “‘the gauger,” as she called him, with indifference; but expressed great and emphatic scorn and indignation at being supposed capable of injuring little Harry Bertram. She was long confined in jail, under the hope that something might yet be discovered to throw light upon this dark and bloody transaction. Nothing, however, occurred; and Meg was at length liberated, but under sentence of banishment from the county, as a vagrant, common thief, and disorderly person. No traces of the boy could ever be discovered; and, at length, the story, after making much noise, was gradually given up as altogether inexplicable, and only perpetuated by the name of ‘The Gauger’s Loup,” which was generally bestowed on the cliff from which the unfortunate man had fallen, or been precipitated.
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Gwar TER XI
Enter Time, as Chorus
I—that please some, try all; both joy and terror Of good and bad ; that make and unfold error— Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
To use my wings. Impute it not a crime
To me, or my swift passage, that I slide
O’er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried Of that wide gap.
Winter's Tale.
Our narration is now about to make a large stride, and omit a space of nearly seventeen years; during which nothing occurred of any particular consequence with respect to the story we have undertaken to tell. ‘he gap is a wide one; yet if the reader’s experience in life enables him to look back on sO many years, the space will scarce appear longer in his recollection, than the time consumed in turning these pages.
It was, then, in the month of November, about seventeen years after the catastrophe related in the last chapter, that, during a cold and stormy night, a social group had closed around the kitchen fire of the Gordon Arms at Kippletringan, a small but comfortable inn, kept by Mrs. Mac-Candlish in that village. The conversation which passed among them will save me the trouble of telling the few events occurring during this chasm in our history, with which it is necessary that the reader should be acquainted.
Mrs. Mac-Candlish, throned in a comfortable easy chair lined with black leather, was regaling herself, and a neigh- bouring gossip or two, with a cup of genuine tea, and at the same time keeping a sharp eye upon her domestics, as they went and came in prosecution of their various duties and com- missions. The clerk and precentor of the parish enjoyed at a little distance his Saturday night’s pipe, and aided its bland fumigation by an occasional sip of brandy and water. Deacon Bearcliff, a man of great importance in the village, combined the indulgence of both parties—he had his pipe and his tea- cup, the latter being laced with a little spirits. One or two clowns sat at some distance, drinking their twopenny ale.
“ Are ye sure the parlour’s ready for them, and the fire burning clear, and the chimney no smoking ?” said the hostess to a chambermaid.
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She was answered in the affirmative-—‘ Ane wadna be uncivil to them, especially in their distress,” said she, turning to the Deacon.
“ Assuredly not, Mrs. Mac-Candlish; assuredly not. I am sure ony sma’ thing they might want frae my shop, under seven, or eight, or ten pounds, I would book them as readily for it as the first in the country.—Do they come in the auld chaise ?”’
“T dare say no,” said the precentor; “for Miss Bertram comes on the white powny ilka day to the kirk—and a constant kirk-keeper she is—and it’s a pleasure to hear her singing the psalms, winsome young thing.”
“‘ Ay, and the young Laird of Hazlewood rides hame half the road wi’ her after sermon,” said one of the gossips in com- pany; “I wonder how auld Hazlewood likes that.”
‘I kenna how he may like it now,” answered another of the tea-drinkers ; “‘but the day has been when Ellangowan wad hae liked as little to see his daughter taking up with their son.”
“Ay, has been,” answered the first, with somewhat of emphasis.
“T am sure, neighbour Ovens,” said the hostess, ‘the Hazlewoods of Hazlewood, though they are a very gude auld family in the county, never thought, till within these twa score o’ years, of evening themselves till the Ellangowans—Wow, woman, the Bertrams of Ellangowan are the auld Dingawaies lang syne—there is a sang about ane o’ them marrying a daughter of the King of Man; it begins—
‘ Blythe Bertram’s ta’en him ower the faem, To wed a wife, and bring her hame——’
1 daur say Mr. Skreigh can sing us the ballant.”
“ Gudewife,” said Skreigh, gathering up his mouth, and sipping his tiff of brandy punch with great solemnity, “ our talents were gien us to other use than to sing daft auld sangs sae near the Sabbath day.”
“ Hout fie, Mr. Skreigh; I’se warrant I hae heard you sing a blythe sang on Saturday at e’en before now.—But as for the chaise, Deacon, it hasna been out of the coach-house since Mrs. Bertram died, that’s sixteen or seventeen years sin syne —Jock Jabos is away wi’ a chaise of mine for them ;—I wonder he’s no come back. Ivt’s pit mirk—but there’s no an ill turn on the road but twa, and the brigg ower Warroch burn is safe
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eneugh, if he haud to the right side. But then there’s Heavie- side-brae, that’s just a murder for post-cattle—but Jock kens the road brawly.”
A loud rapping was heard at the door.
“That’s no them. I dinna hear the wheels.—Grizzel, ye limmer, gang to the door.”
“It’s a single gentleman,” whined out Grizzel; ‘‘maun I take him into the parlour?”
‘Foul be in your feet, then; it’ll be some English rider. Coming without a servant at this time o’ night !—Has the ostler ta’en the horse ?—Ye may light a spunk o’ fire in the red room.”
“I wish, ma’am,” said the traveller, entering the kitchen, ‘you would give me leave to warm myself here, for the night is very cold.”
His appearance, voice, and manner, produced an instantane- ous effect in his favour. He was a handsome, tall, thin figure, dressed in black, as appeared when he laid aside his riding- coat; his age might be between forty and fifty; his cast of features grave and interesting, and his air somewhat military. Every point of his appearance and address bespoke the gentle- man. Long habit had given Mrs. Mac-Candlish an acute tact in ascertaining the quality of her visitors, and proportioning her reception accordingly ;—
To every guest the appropriate speech was made,
And every duty with distinction paid ;
Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite—
‘* Your honour’s servant !—Mister Smith, good night.”
On the present occasion, she was low in her curtsey, and profuse in her apologies. The stranger begged his horse might be attended to—she went out herself to school the hostler.
‘There was never a prettier bit o’ horse-flesh in the stable o’ the Gordon Arms,” said the man; which information in- creased the landlady’s respect for the rider. Finding, on her return, that the stranger declined to go into another apart- ment (which, indeed, ‘she allowed, would be but cold and smoky till the fire bleezed up), she installed her guest hospit- ably by the fireside, and offered what refreshment her house afforded.
“ A cup of your tea, ma’am, if you will favour me.”
Mrs. Mac-Candlish bustled about, reinforced her teapot with
hyson, and proceeded in her duties with her best grace. ‘We p 133
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have a very nice parlour, sir, and everything very agreeable for gentlefolks ; but it’s bespoke the night for a gentleman and his daughter, that are going to leave this part of the country— ane of my chaises is gane for them, and will be back forthwith —they’re no sae weel in the warld as they have been; but we're a’ subject to ups and downs in this life, as your honour must needs ken—but is not the tobacco-reek disagreeable to your honour ?”
“By no means, ma’am; I am an old campaigner, and perfectly used to it.—Will you permit me to make some inquiries about a family in this neighbourhood ?”
The sound of wheels was now heard, and the landlady hurried to the door to receive her expected guests; but returned in an instant, followed by the postilion—‘ No, they canna come at no rate, the Laird’s sae ill.”
‘But God help them,” said the landlady, “the morn’s the term—the very last day they can bide in the house—a’ thing’s to be roupit.”
‘““Weel, but they can come at no rate, I tell ye—Mr. Bertram canna be moved.”
“What Mr. Bertram?” said the stranger; “not Mr. Bertram of Ellangowan, I hope?”
“‘Just e’en that same, sir; and if ye be a friend o’ his, ye have come at a time when he’s sair bested.”
“T have been abroad for many years—is his health so much deranged?”
“Ay, and his affairs an’ a’,” said the Deacon; “the creditors have entered into possession o’ the estate, and it’s for sale; and some that made the maist by him—I name nae names, but Mrs. Mac-Candlish kens wha I mean—(the land- lady shook her head significantly) they’re sairest on him e’en now. I have a sma’ matter due mysell, but I would rather have lost it than gane to turn the auld man out of his house, and him just dying.”
“ Ay, but,” said the parish-clerk, ‘‘ Factor Glossin wants to get rid of the auld Laird, and drive on the sale, for fear the heir-male should cast up upon them ; for I have heard say, if there was an heir-male, they couldna sell the estate for auld Ellangowan’s debt.”
“He had a son born a good many years ago,” said the stranger; “‘he is dead, I suppose?”
“Nae man can say for that,” answered the clerk mys- teriously.
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“Dead!” said the Deacon, “I’se warrant him dead lang syne; he hasna been heard o’ these twenty years or thereby.”
**T wot weel it’s no twenty years,” said the landlady; ‘it’s no abune seventeen at the outside in this very month; it made an unco noise ower a’ this country—the bairn dis- appeared the very day that Supervisor Kennedy cam by his end.—If ye kenn’d this country lang syne, your honour wad maybe ken Frank Kennedy the Supervisor. He was a heart- some pleasant man, and company for the best gentlemen in the county, and muckle mirth he’s made in this house. I was young then, sir, and newly married to Bailie Mac-Candlish, that’s dead and gone—(a sigh)—and muckle fun I’ve had wi’ the Supervisor. He was a daft dog—Oh, an he could hae hauden aff the smugglers a bit! but he was aye venture- some.—And so ye see, sir, there was a king’s sloop down in Wigton Bay, and Frank Kennedy, he behoved to have her up to chase Dirk Hatteraick’s lugger—ye’ll mind Dirk Hatteraick, Deacon? I dare say ye may have dealt wi’ him—(the Deacon gave a sort of acquiescent nod and humph). He was a daring chield, and he fought his ship till she blew up like peelings of ingans; and Frank Kennedy he had been the first man to board, and he was flung like a quarter of a mile off, and fell into the water below the rock at Warroch Point, that they ca’ the Gauger’s Loup to this day.”
“And Mr. Bertram’s child,” said the stranger, ‘‘ what is all this to him?”
‘Ou, sir, the bairn aye held an unca wark wi’ the Super- visor; and it was generally thought he went on board the vessel alang wi’ him, as bairns are aye forward to be in mischief.”
““No, Luckie—for the young Laird was stown away by a randy gipsy woman they ca’d Meg Merrilies,—I mind her looks weel,—in revenge for Ellangowan h having gar’d her be drumm’d through Kippletringan for stealing a silver spoon.”
“If ye’ll forgie me, Deacon,” said the precentor, “ ye’re e’en as far wrang as the gudewife.”
“And what is your edition of the story, sir?” said the stranger, turning to him with interest.
““That’s maybe no sae canny to tell,” said the precentor, with solemnity.
Upon being urged, however, to speak out, he preluded with two or three large puffs of tobacco-smoke, and out of
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the cloudy sanctuary which these whiffs formed around him, delivered the following legend, having cleared his voice with one or two hems, and imitating, as near as he could, the eloquence which weekly thundered over his head from the pulpit.
‘What we are now to deliver, my brethren,—hem—hem,— I mean, my good friends,—was not done in a corner, and may serve as an answer to witch-advocates, atheists, and misbelievers of all kinds.—Ye must know that the worshipful Laird of Ellangowan was not so preceese as he might have been in clearing his land of witches (concerning whom it is said, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’), nor of those who had familiar spirits, and consulted with divination, and sorcery, and lots, which is the fashion with the Egyptians, as they ca’ themsells, and other unhappy bodies, in this our country. And the Laird was three years married without having a family—and he was sae left to himsell, that it was thought he held ower muckle troking and communing wi’ that Meg Merrilies, wha was the maist notorious witch in a’ Galloway and Dumfriesshire baith.”
Candlish ; ‘I’ve kenn’d him order her twa glasses o’ brandy in this very house.”
“‘ Aweel, gudewife, then the less I lee.—Sae the lady was wi’ bairn at last, and in the night when she should have been delivered, there comes to the door of the ha’ house—the Place of Ellangowan as they ca’d—an ancient man, strangely habited, and asked for quarters. His head, and his legs, and his arms were bare, although it was winter time o’ the year, and he had a grey beard three quarters lang. Weel, he was admitted; and when the lady was delivered, he craved to know the very moment of the hour of the birth, and he went out and consulted the stars. And when he came back, he tell’d the Laird, that the Evil One wad have power over the knave-bairn, that was that night born, and he charged him that the babe should be bred up in the ways of piety, and that he should aye hae a godly minister at his elbow, to pray wi’ the bairn and for him. And the aged man vanished away, and no man of this country saw mair o’ him.”
“Now, that will not pass,” said the postilion, who, at a respectful distance, was listening to the conversation, “ begging Mr. Skreigh’s and the company’s pardon,—there was no sae mony hairs on the warlock’s face as there’s on Letter-
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Gae’s! ain at this moment; and he had as gude a pair o’ boots as a man need streik on his legs, and gloves too ;— and I should understand boots by this time, I think.”
“‘Whisht, Jock,” said the landlady.
“Ay? and what do ye ken o’ the matter, friend Jabos?” said the precentor contemptuously.
““No muckle, to be sure, Mr. Skreigh—only that I lived within a penny-stane cast o’ the head o’ the avenue at Ellan- gowan, when a man cam jingling to our door that night the young Laird was born, and my mother sent me, that was a hafflin callant, to show the stranger the gate to the Place, which, if he had been sic a warlock, he might hae kenn’d himsell, ane wad think—and he was a young, weel-faured, weel-dressed lad, like an Englishman. And I tell ye he had as gude a hat, and boots, and gloves, as ony gentleman need to have. To be sure he ad gie an awesome glance up at the auld castle—and there was some spae-work gaed on—I aye heard that; but as for his vanishing, I held the stirrup mysell when he gaed away, and he gied me a round half-crown—he was riding on a haick they ca’d Souple Sam—it belanged to the George at Dumfries—it was a blood-bay beast, very ill o’ the spavin—lI hae seen the beast baith before and since.”
‘“* Aweel, aweel, Jock,” answered Mr. Skreigh, with a tone of mild solemnity, ‘‘ our accounts differ in no material particulars ; but I had no knowledge that ye had seen the man.—So ye see, my friends, that this soothsayer having prognosticated evil to the boy, his father engaged a godly minister to be with him morn and night.”
“ Ay, that was him they ca’d Dominie Sampson,” said the postilion.
‘““He’s but a dumb dog that,” observed the Deacon; “I have heard that he never could preach five words of a sermon endlang, for as lang as he has been licensed.”
““Weel, but,” said the precentor, waving his hand, as if eager to retrieve the command of the discourse, “‘ he waited on the young Laird by night and day. Now, it chanced, when the bairn was near five years auld, that the Laird had a sight of his errors, and determined to put these Egyptians aff his ground; and he caused them to remove; and that Frank Kennedy, that was a rough swearing fellow, he was sent to turn them off. And he cursed and damned at them, and they
1 The precentor is called by Allan Ramsay,—" The Letter-Gae of haly rhyme.”
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swure at him; and that Meg Merrilies, that was the maist powerfu’ with the Enemy of Mankind, she as gude as said she would have him, body and soul, before three days were ower his head. And I have it from a sure hand, and that’s ane wha saw it, and that’s John Wilson, that was the Laird’s groom, that Meg appeared to the Laird as he was riding hame from Singleside, over Gibbie’s-know, and threatened him wi’ what — she wad do to his family; but whether it was Meg, or some- thing waur in her likeness, for it seemed bigger than ony mortal creature, John could not say.”
“ Aweel,” said the postilion, “it might be sae—I canna say against it, for I was not in the country at the time; but John Wilson was a blustering kind of chield, without the heart of a sprug.”
“* And what was the end of all this?” said the stranger, with some impatience.
“Ou, the event and upshot of it was, sir,” said the precentor, “that while they were all looking on, beholding a king’s ship chase a smuggler, this Kennedy suddenly brake away frae them without ony reason that could be descried—ropes nor tows wad not hae held him—and made for the wood of Warroch as fast as his beast could carry him; and by the way he met the young Laird and his governor, and he snatched up the ~ bairn, and swure, if Ze was bewitched, the bairn should have the same luck as him; and the minister followed as fast as he could, and almaist as fast as them, for he was wonderfully swift of foot—and he saw Meg the witch, or her master in her similitude, rise suddenly out of the ground, and claught the bairn suddenly out of the gauger’s arms—and then he ram- pauged and drew his sword—for ye kena fie man and a cusser fearsna the deil.”
“T believe that’s very true,” said the postilion,
‘So, sir, she grippit him, and clodded him like a stane from the sling ower the craigs of Warroch Head, where he was found that evening—but what became of the babe, frankly I cannot say. But he that was minister here then, that’s now in a better place, had an opinion, that the bairn was only conveyed to Fairyland for a season.”
The stranger had smiled slightly at some parts of this recital, but ere he could answer, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and a smart servant, handsomely dressed, with a cockade in his hat, bustled into the kitchen, with ‘‘ Make a little room, good people”; when, observing the stranger, he
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descended at once into the modest and civil domestic, his hat sunk down by his side, and he put a letter into his master’s hands. ‘“‘ The family at Ellangowan, sir, are in great distress, and unable to receive any visits.”
“T know it,” replied his master :—‘‘ And now, madam, if you will have the goodness to allow me to occupy the parlour you mentioned, as you are disappointed of your guests
“ Certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Mac-Candlish, and hastened to light the way with all the imperative bustle which an active landlady loves to display on such occasions.
“Young man,” said the Deacon to the servant, filling a glass, ‘‘ye’ll no be the waur o’ this, after your ride.”
‘Not a feather, sir,—thank ye—your very good health, sir.”
“ And wha may your master be, friend?”
‘What, the gentleman that was here?—that’s the famous Colonel Mannering, sir, from the East Indies.”
‘“ What, him we read of in the newspapers?”
“Ay, ay, just the same. It was he relieved Cuddieburn, and defended Chingalore, and defeated the great Mahratta chief, Ram Jolli Bundleman—lI was with him in most of his campaigns.”
“Lord safe us,” said the landlady, “‘I must go see what he would have for supper—that I should set him down here!”
‘Oh, he likes that all the better, mother ;—you never saw a plainer creature in your life than our old Colonel; and yet he has a spice of the devil in him too.”
The rest of the evening’s conversation below stairs tending little to edification, we shall, with the reader’s leave, step up to the parlour.