Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XVII Part 3

"Hery, Hary, Hubblischow, See ye not quha is come now!"

ringing in one's ears during the whole night. The young were out; the old were in; but all were equally up and doing the honours of the occasion. At auld Wat Wabster's door, one minstrel company were singing--"Great is my sorrow;" and Marion, his daughter, with

"Her glitterand hair, that was sae gowden,"

dealt out, with leal hand, the guyser's bannock. At the very next door, Meg Johnston was in the act of being "smecked oot" by a covey of twelve devils, who had inserted into every cranny a horn, and were blowing, with puffed cheeks, a choking death in every blast. One kept watch, to give the concerted signal when Meg should appear with her stick. On which occasion they were off in an instant; but only to return when Meg had let out the smoke, and satisfied herself that she would be no more tormented that night, to blow her up and out again, with greater vigour and a denser smoke than before. Farther on, Gib Dempster's dame, Kate, is at her door, with the bottle in her hand, to give another menyie of maskers their "hogmanay,"

in the form of a dram; and Gib is at her back, eyeing her with a squint, to count how many interlusive applications of the cordial she will make to her own throat before she renounce her _opportunity_. In the middle of the street, Gossip Simson is hurrying along, with the necessaries in her lap, to treat her "cusin," Christy Lowrie, with a bit and a drop; and ever and anon she says, "a guid e'en" to this one, and "a guid e'en" to that; and, between the parties, her head is ever thrown back, as if she were counting the stars; and, every time the act is repeated, the bottle undergoes a perceptible diminution of its contents, till, by the time she reaches her "luving cusin's" door, it is empty; and honest John Simson, at her return, greets her with--"My feth, Jenny, ye've been at mony a hoose in Christ's Kirk this nicht, if ane may judge by yer bottle." At the same instant,

"Oh, leddy, help yer prisoneer This last nicht o' the pa.s.sing year,"

is struck up at the door; the stock and horn sounds l.u.s.tily in the ears of her whose bottle is empty; and, obliged to send them away without either cake or sup, she hears sounding in her confused ears--

"The day will come when ye'll be dead.

An' ye'll neither care for meal nor bread;"

and, in a short time after, "Jamie the wight," an impling, with a tail of half-a-dozen minor and subordinate angels, begin blowing their smoking horns in at both door and window, till honest John is fairly smoked out, crying, as he hastens to the door--"This comes, Jenny, o' yer lavish kindness to yer cusins, that we hae naethin left in oor bottle, either to keep oot thae deevils' breath or wash't oot o' oor choking craigs." He is no sooner at the door than Geordie Jamieson accosts him in the usual style, and says he has come for his "hogmanay;" but John, knowing the state of the bottle, begins a loud cough, in the midst of the smoke, and cries, as he runs away from his house and visitor, (whom he pretends not to see for the smoke.) "It's a deevil o' a hards.h.i.+p to be smeeked oot o' ane's ain hoose."

"Now," mutters Jenny, as she hears him run away, "I'll no see his face till mornin; an' he'll come in as blind's a bat." And out she flies to catch him; but, in her hurry, she overturns Geordie, just as his lips are manufacturing the ordinary "Guid e'en to ye, Jenny!"

"The same to ye, Geordie," says she; and, with that boon, leaves him on her flight.

The truth was, that John had the same instinctive antipathy against a house where there was an empty bottle as rats have against deserted granaries.

But, if honest John Simson's house was deserted because Jenny had made too free with the bottle, Wat Webster's was full, from a reason precisely the very opposite; for the fair Marion--who had

"Brankit fast and made her bonny"--

was, in the midst of a company, distributing the cakes and bannocks with maidenly grace; and many a swain that night was glad, while

"He quhissilit and he pypit baith, To mak her blyth that meeting-- My hony heart, how says the sang, There sall be mirth at oor greeting."

And among the rest might now be seen John Simson and his helpmate, and also Meg Johnston, who had been--either in reality, or, at least, with semblance sufficient to form their apology for calling where there was plenty of drink--smoked out of their own houses, amidst the cheers of the fire-imps.

About this time, twelve o'clock was chimed from a rough-voiced bell of the Franciscan Monastery; and, some time after, in came Christy Lowrie, puffing and blowing, as if she too had experienced the effects of the thick breath of the fire-imps; and it might have been a fair presumption that her throat, like that of some of her predecessors, had been dried from pre-perceived gusts of Wat Webster's whisky rather than the smoke of the fire-angels, had it not been made quickly apparent, from other symptoms, that a horripilant terror had seized her heart and limbs, and inspired her tongue with the dry rattle of fearful intelligence. Never stopping till she got forward into the very heart of the company, seated round a blazing ingle, she sank upon a chair, and held up her hands to heaven, as if calling down from that quarter some supernatural agency to help in her difficulty. Every one turned and looked at her with wonder, mixed with sympathetic fear.

"What, in G.o.d's name, is this, Christy? Is he come?" cried Wat Webster.

"Oh! he's come again--he's come again!" she replied, in the midst of an effort to catch a spittle to wet her parched throat. "He's been at Will Pearson's, and Widow Lindsay's, and Rob Paterson's--he's gaun his auld rounds--and dootless he'll be here too. O Marion! Marion! gie me a spark to weet my throat."

The door was again opened, and in came Widow Lindsay in great haste and terror,

"I've seen him again!" cried she fearfully, and threw herself down in a corner of the lang settle.

"Are ye sure it's him, dame?" inquired Meg Johnston, who seemed perfectly to understand these extraordinary proceedings.

"Sure!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the widow. "Hae I no tasted his _red whisky_; and has it no burned my throat till I maun ask Marion there to quench the fire wi' a spark o' human-liquor?"

The fire in the two terror-struck women's throats was soon extinguished by the "spark" they demanded; and a conversation, composed of twenty voices at once, commenced, the essence of which was, that, on the occasion of the last Hogmanay, a man dressed in a peculiar manner, with a green doublet, and hose of the same colour, a cravat, and a blue bonnet, had, just as twelve o'clock pealed from the monastery clock, made his appearance in the town, and conducted himself in such a manner as to excite much wonder among the inhabitants. Everything about him was mysterious; no person in that quarter had ever seen him before; there was n.o.body along with him; he came exactly at twelve; his face was so much shaded by a peculiar manner of wearing his bonnet and cravat that no one could say he had ever got a proper view of his features; he carried with him a bottle of liquor, which the people, from ignorance of its character, denominated _red whisky_, and which he distributed freely to all and sundry, without his stock ever running out, or being exhausted: his manners were free, boisterous, and hilarious; and he possessed the extraordinary power of making people love him _ad libitum_. He came as he went, without any one knowing more of him than that he was the very prince of good fellows; so exquisite a tosspot, that he seemed equal to the task (perhaps no difficult one) of making the whole town of Christ's Kirk drunk by the extraordinary spirit of his example; and so spirit-stirring a conjurer of odd thoughts and unrivalled humour, that melancholy itself laughed a gaunt laugh at his jokes; and gizzened gammers and giddy hizzies were equally delighted with his devilry and his drink. Arriving in the midst of frolic as high as ordinary mortal spirits might be supposed able to sublime human exultation, he effected such an increase of the corrybantic power of the laughing and singing genius of Hogmanay, that

"Never in Scotland had been seen Sic dancing nor deray; Nowther at Falkland on the green, Nor Peebles at the play."

But, coming like a fire-flaught, like a fire-flaught he and his red whisky had departed; and it was not until he had gone, and one tosspot met another tosspot, and gossip another gossip, and compared notes, and exchanged shrewd guesses, eloquent winks, and pregnant vibrations of wondering noddles, that the mysterious stranger was invested with all the attributes to which he was, by virtue of his super-human powers, so clearly ent.i.tled.

He was immediately elevated to the place which, in those days, was reserved in every cranium for the throne of the genius of superst.i.tion; yea he of the red cravat and red liquor was the never-ending subject of conversation, investigation, speculation, and consternation of the good folks of the town of Christ's Kirk. While the terror he had inspired was still fresh on the minds of the people, he returned at the exact hour of twelve on the subsequent Halloween. He brought again his bottle of red liquor, was dressed in the same style, wore the same red cravat, and was invested with the same sublimating powers of extravagant merriment. He went his old rounds; cracked nuts with the kittys; ducked for the apple, which never escaped his mouth; threw the weight in the barn; spaed fortunes with the Mauses; drank with the tosspots--

"If you can be blest the day, Ne'er defer it till the morn-- Peril still attends delay; As the fools will find, when they Have their happy hour forborne;"

and, by means of his wild humour and exhilarating drink, set all the scene of his former exploits in an uproar of mixed terror, jollity, superst.i.tion, and amazement. Every one, not possessed of fear, scrutinized him; those (and they were many) who were stricken with terror, avoided him as if he had in reality been the gentleman in black, as indeed many at that time alleged he was; some who had heard of him, watched to catch a pa.s.sing glimpse of him; but, wonderful as it may seem, the jolly stranger again disappeared, and no one, even those who had got royally drunk with him, could say aught more of him than was said on the prior occasion; viz., that he was the very prince of good fellows, if he should be the "very big-horned Deil himsel." On his second disappearance, the point was no longer a moot one, "Who the devil he could be?" for the very question, as put, decided the question before it was answered. The point was just as lucid as ever was the spring of St Anthony, and no one could be gravelled, where there was not a grain of sand to interrupt the vision. There was not in the limits of the guid toun a dame or damsel, greybeard, or no-beard, that possessed within the boundaries of their cerebral dominions a single peg on which they could hang a veritable or plausible doubt of the true character, origin, and destination of this twelve-o'clock visiter of the good old town of "Christ's Kirk on the Green."

Such was the state and condition of public opinion in the town of Leslie on this most important and engrossing subject, on the breaking of the day with which our history begins--this eventful Hogmanay. As the evening approached, every one trembled; but the inspiration of incipient drams had had the effect of so far throwing off the incubus as to enable some of the inhabitants, and, in particular, those we have mentioned, to go about the forms of the festival with decent freedom; while the guysers and "reekers,"

after the manner of buoyant youth, had been flirting with their terrors, and singing and blowing to "keep their spirits up," in the execution of what they conceived to be a national duty, as well as very good individual fun. But there was little real sport in the case; and we would give it as a stanch, and an unflinching opinion, were it put to us, that the terror of the stranger, and not a love of the liquor she carried, was the true cause of Jenny Simson's having emptied the bottle before she arrived at the residence of Christy Lowrie. Nay, more, we might safely allege--and there is no affidavit in the case--that there might have been more than smoke in the cause of the rapid flight of John Simson and Meg Johnston from their own houses to that of Wat Webster; and more than the roses in the cheeks of the fair Marion, or Wat Webster's pith of anecdote, that produced the congregation of individuals round his "blazing ingle," at the approach of the eerie hour of twelve, when it was probable the mysterious stranger would again appear. Be all this as it may--and we have no wish to overstate a case in which it is scarcely possible to carry language too far--there cannot be a doubt that the bells of the Franciscan monastery, as they tolled, in reverberating sounds, the termination of the old year and the beginning of the new, on that eventful night, struck a panic into the boldest Heich Hutcheon that ever figured in "Christ's Kirk on the Green."

The statement of Christy Lowrie was perfectly true. Just as the bell tolled, the identical personage, with the red cravat, was seen hurrying forward with his ordinary agility--taking immense strides, and, at times, laughing with the exuberance of his buoyant spirits, on the eve of being gratified by his darling fun--by the east end of the town. The moon threw a faint beam on him as he pa.s.sed, and exhibited him first to a company of guysers who were chanting at the door of Will Pearson--

"O l.u.s.ty Maye, with Flora queen."

The song was cut by a severed breath, and, uttering a loud scream, the whole party darted off at full speed, and, as they flew, spread the dreadful intelligence, that he of the red cravat was hurrying into the town from the east. The news was just what was expected; hundreds were waiting _aperto ore_ to receive it; and the moment they did receive it, they fled to communicate the intelligence to others. Guysers, reekers, gossips, and tosspots, laid down their songs, their horns, their scandal, and their stoups, and acknowledged their Hogmanay occupation gone. The startling words--"He's come, he's come!" pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth. Some shut up their houses, to prevent him from coming into them; and many who were solitary, sought refuge in the houses of their neighbours. Some went out of the town entirely, and sought protection from the abbot of the monastery; and many stood about the corners of the pa.s.sages and the ends of houses, consulting what should be done in this emergency they had so long looked for, and were so poorly provided against. In every quarter, fear reigned with absolute sway; and if, in any instances, there was exhibited any portion of courage, it was either derived from the protecting power of a crucifix, or a.s.sumed in spite of the collapsing heart of real terror.

But all this did not prevent the stranger from going through his wonted routine. His long strides, and extreme eagerness to get again into the heart of his former extravagant jollity, brought him very soon to the threshold of his old tosspot, Will Pearson, who, with his wife Betty, was sitting at the fire, engaged in a low-toned conversation, on the very subject of him of the red cravat. The door was burst open--the stranger entered with a loud laugh and boisterous salutation.

"A good new year to thee," said he, "Will Pearson!" And he took, at the same time, out of a side-pocket, the identical bottle, with a long neck, and a thin waist, and containing the same red whisky he had been so lavish of on former occasions, and set it upon the table with a loud knock that rang throughout the small cottage.

Will Pearson and his wife Betty were riveted to the langsettle on which they sat. Neither of them could move, otherwise they would have either gone out at the back window, or endeavoured to get past the stranger, and hurried out of the door. The quietness of the street told them eloquently that there was no one near to give them a.s.sistance; and such was the enchantment (they said) thrown over them by the extraordinary personage, that they were fixed to their seats as firmly as if they had been tied by cords.

"A good new year to thee!" said the stranger again; and he reached forth his hand, and seized two flasks that lay on a side table, and which they had been using in the convivialities of the day. These he placed upon the table with a loud clank; and, laying hold of a three-footed creepy, he sat down right opposite the trembling pair, and proceeded to empty out the red liquor into the flasks, which he did in the most flouris.h.i.+ng and n.o.ble style of valiant topers.

"Here, my good old tosspot, Will Pearson!" said he, as he handed to him one of the flasks. "I love thee, man, and have called on thee the first of all the inhabitants of Christ's Kirk. Ha! by the holy rude, what a jolly cruise I shall have!--I have looked forward for it since the last time thou and I reduced the consistency of our corporations to the texture of souls, through which the moon might have shone, by the power of this inimitable liquor. Ho, man, had not we a jolly time of it last time we met? Drink, man!"

And he emptied his flask, and flung it down upon the table, with a bold and reckless air, as if he did not care whether its continuity might be maintained against the force of the bang with which he disposed of it.

Will Pearson was unable to speak a single syllable; and the flask that had been filled for him stood upon the table untouched. He sat with his eyes fixed upon the stranger, and his skin as pale as a corpse. Betty was in the same state of immovable terror. Every word that fell from his lips was a death-knell--every drop of his red drink was as much liquid fire--and every look was a flame.

"Why won't drink, Will Pearson, mine good old crony?" said he again, with the same boisterous manner. "What grieves thee, man? and Betty too?--what loss hast thou sustained? Cuffed by fortune? Broken on her wheel? Ha! ha! I despise the old gammer, and will laugh out my furlough, though my lungs should crack in throwing off the burden.

"'This warld does ever flight and wary, Fortune sae fast her wheel does cary, Na time but turn can ever rest; For nae false charge suld ane be sary, And to be merry, I think it best.'

Pull up thy jaws, Will Pearson, and pull into them this flask, and thou shalt be again my merry tosspot."

Will and his wife were still under the influence of their fear, and stared at him in amazement.

"Well, and thou wilt not," he cried, rising hastily, "may the Devil take on for't! My time is counted, and I must stuff as much fun into the compa.s.s of an hour as may serve me for the coming year. Will Pearson, thou and I might have had a right jolly time of it. I warrant the gallant Rob Paterson will welcome me in a different manner. The sight of this is enough for Rob,"

(taking up the bottle;) "and as for this--ha! ha! what goodness getteth not the fire claims."

And throwing the liquor into the ingle, which blazed up a large and fearful flame by the strength of the spirit, he sallied out, and at the same moment a loud scream--coming from some bolder investigators, who had ventured near the house, and seen the sudden conflagration, followed by the exit of the stranger--rung in echoes all around. But the stranger heeded not these trifling indications of the effect of his visit. Resuming his long strides and pus.h.i.+ng-on activity of manner, he soon arrived at the house of Rob Paterson, who was at the very moment addressing a figure of the Virgin.

"A good new year to thee, Rob Paterson!" cried the stranger, as he sat down upon a kind of chair by the side of the table, and, taking out his strange-fas.h.i.+oned bottle of red spirits, banged it down with a noise that made Rob start and shake all over.

"Here again, thou seest, Rob Paterson," continued he. "We must have another jolly bout. Thou knowest my time is short. Let us begin, for my body feels the weight of its own clay. Before the Virgin, Rob? Ha! ha! man, art going to die? Come, man--

"When grim Death is looking for us, We are toping at our bowls; Bacchus joins us in the chorus-- Death, begone!--here's none but souls."

Drink, Rob Paterson, and thou'lt pray the better to the Virgin."