SAFEGUARDS FROM WITCHCRAFT.
As witchcraft is in itself by far the greatest calamity the Highlander
is subject to, so Providence, in its wise economy, has afforded him the
amplest means of guarding against its effects. And if a radical remedy
has not yet been discovered for the evil in all its bearings, it is
only because mankind have not been equally solicitous for the discovery
of it. Adverse to a murmuring discontented spirit, the Highlander
is satisfied with the removal of a share of his grievances. Having
obtained a knowledge of a certain remedy for those practices of the
craft which weigh most heavily on his temporal interests, he is not so
presumptuous as to suppose that Providence is so partial in its favours
as to grant him a remedy for those that affect his immortal interests
also. Satisfied with the benefits he enjoys, he is not clamorous for an
extension of them, leaving the concerns of another world for a season
of more convenience and leisure.
As a sovereign protection for goods and chattels of every description
from the machinations of those despicable agents, the rowan cross,
of invaluable excellence, has never been known to prove ineffectual.
Its salutary influence on every species of supernatural agents is
well known, and there are none to whom the smell of the rowan is more
obnoxious than the “Ban Buchuchd.” As a proof of its efficacy, we can
produce no better authority than the following affecting story:--
“There is, in the vicinity of Forres, an old decayed edifice,
called ‘_Castle Boorgie_,’ in which once lived a rich laird, who
had a beautiful daughter. Seemingly possessed of every engaging
accomplishment, and apparently endowed with the most amiable
disposition, she was the darling of her aged father, whose hopes and
joys were wholly centered in her. One spring morning, as her father
and herself were surveying the delightful prospects which the castle
commanded, the immense number of ploughs at work within the compass
of their vision happened to attract their attention. ‘Father,’ says
this ill-fated, unconscious child, ‘do we not behold a vast number of
ploughs in the widely-extended district now in our view?’--‘Yes, my
love, we do,’ replied the father, ‘and it is a pleasant thing to look
at them.’--‘What reward will you give me,’ added she, ‘if, by a single
word, I shall cause them all stand as immoveable as if the cattle were
transformed into stones?’--‘On that condition,’ replied the astonished
father, ‘the most superb and costly gown in the town of Forres shall
be yours.’--‘It is done,’ says the daughter. Raising her hand, she
muttered an unintelligible sound, and, lo! all the ploughs in the
district, with the exception of a single one, stood stock still and
immoveable.--‘Indeed!’ exclaims the father, ‘you are a rare conjuror,
my dear; but how is that plough in the adjacent park exempted from
the magical effect of your powerful charm?’--‘The cause I can easily
guess,’ says she; ‘there is, in one of the oxen’s bows, a pin of the
rowan tree, the virtue of which defeats all attempts at preternatural
fascination.’--‘Aye, aye,’ says he, ‘all those things are wonderfully
pretty; pray who taught them to you?’--‘My old nurse taught me those
fine things, and am not I greatly obliged to her, sir?’--‘You are,
undoubtedly,’ he replies, ‘and she shall soon have her reward. Oh! my
dear, my only child--support and comfort of my aged head--would to God
you had never been born!’
“Summoning immediately a council of his friends, the broken-hearted
parent revealed to them the whole circumstance, and craved
their opinion as to the measures that should be adopted in this
deeply-to-be-deplored case. After due consultation, the council gave it
as their decided opinion, that, concluding that she was irrecoverably
lost to all good in this world, the extension of her life would be only
productive of eternal disgrace and infamy to her friends, while her
spiritual interests would every day be destroyed by accumulating guilt.
Therefore, that her life should be instantly terminated by a private
death; and that the old hag, the author of her ruin, should be publicly
burned under every ignominious circumstance. To this hard decision the
agonised father was persuaded to assent; and a doctor was immediately
dispatched for to Forres, to point out the easiest mode of taking her
life. Bleeding the temporal arteries was the mode of death agreed on,
and the poor innocent victim of the old hag’s depravity was introduced
into a private apartment, in order to undergo the awful operation. On
entering the apartment, her unhappy father burst out into a flood of
tears. Observing his distress, his affectionate little daughter also
fell a crying. ‘What is the matter with you, my dear father?’ says she.
‘Have you received any bad news? Oh! tell me what is the matter with
you, that I may share your sorrows and dry your tears.’ Fearing that
the father’s courage might naturally fail him under so signal a trial,
the friends present instantly seized the astonished dear girl, bound
her hand and foot, and placed her in a vat, and the surgeon inflicted
on her two brows, fair and beautiful as those of an angel, the fatal
wounds. As the blood flowed, the poor affrighted victim perpetually
exclaimed, ‘Do not kill me, do not kill me; what have I done to offend
my dearest father? I am sure I did no harm. For the sake of my dear
mother, who is no more, and for whose sake you loved me so well, do not
let them kill me, my dear father.’ The unhappy father sunk senseless on
the floor, and his expiring child soon closed her eyes on this world,
sighing, with her last breath, ‘My dearest father, do not kill me.’
“The old hag was then brought out to the lawn in front of the castle,
and thrown into a huge furnace of tar and other combustibles, amidst
the general execration of the assembled multitude. And it is said, that
while the witch was burning, every crack she gave was as loud as the
report of a war cannon.”
When, by the neglect of the prescribed safeguards, the seeds of
iniquity have taken root, and a person’s means are decaying in
consequence, the only alternative, in this case, is to resort to that
grand remedy, the “_Tein Econuch_,” or “_Forlorn Fire_,” which seldom
fails of being productive of the best effects. The cure for witchcraft,
called “_Tein Econuch_,” is wrought in the following manner:--
A consultation being held by the unhappy sufferer and his friends as
to the most advisable measures of effecting a cure, if this process is
adopted, notice is privately communicated to all those householders
who reside within the nearest two running streams, to extinguish their
lights and fires on some appointed morning. On its being ascertained
that this notice has been duly observed, a spinning-wheel, or some
other convenient instrument, calculated to produce fire by friction,
is set to work with the most furious earnestness by the unfortunate
sufferer and all who wish well to his cause. Relieving each other
by turns, they drive on with such persevering diligence, that at
length the spindle of the wheel, ignited by excessive friction, emits
“_Forlorn Fire_” in abundance, which, by the application of tow, or
some other combustible material, is widely extended over the whole
neighbourhood. Communicating the fire to the tow, the tow communicates
it to a candle, the candle to a fir-torch, the torch to a cartful of
peats, which the master of the ceremonies, with pious ejaculations for
the success of the experiment, distributes to messengers, who will
proceed with portions of it to the different houses within the said two
running streams, to kindle the different fires. By the influence of
this operation, the machinations and spells of witchcraft “are rendered
null and void,” and, in the language of Scots’ law, “of no avail,
force, strength, or effect, with all that has followed, or may follow
thereupon.”
But should the evil prove so obstinate and deep-rooted as to triumph
over this most commonly efficacious remedy, the dernier resort is an
application to that arch-enemy of Satan, Mr. Grigor Willox Macgrigor,
Emperor of all the Conjurors.
The name of this gentleman is well known to the inhabitants of the
northern counties of Scotland, as the happy proprietor of that
invaluable and wonderful relic, which the vulgar are sometimes
pleased to denominate “Clach Ghrigair Willock,” alias “_Clach Ban na
Buchuchd_,” but which, in our opinion, deserves a far more dignified,
if not a more appropriate appellation. We humbly submit it should be
called the _Philosopher’s Stone_, not so much out of compliment to its
learned and elegant proprietor--although, by the bye, he is wonderfully
_philosophic_--as out of pure justice to the stone itself; for it
certainly is the best substitute for the grand object of the chemist’s
research that has hitherto been discovered. If the philosopher’s stone
will convert metal into gold, the “warlock’s stone” will convert water
into silver by a process perhaps more round-about, but equally certain.
The history of such a precious curiosity as this would, no doubt, prove
highly interesting to the “curious reader;” and the writer has to blame
the shortness of his memory for not gratifying him to the utmost of his
wish, Mr. Willox having more than once personally favoured him with a
very eloquent account of it. Suffice it to say, that this stone was
originally extorted by a very ancient ancestor of Mr. Willox from an
amorous slut of a mermaid, who, unfortunately for her, happened to take
a fancy to him, and no wonder, too, if he possessed in any degree the
personal attractions of his lineal posterity. It happened, then, that
this silly fool of a mermaid once thought it proper to throw herself
in this gentleman’s way, expecting, no doubt, very different treatment
from that which she experienced,--when her unnatural sweetheart,
instead of offering her any endearments, most ungraciously chained her
to a post, until she redeemed her liberty by this precious ransom.
This was, no doubt, long, long ago, nobody knows how long, and the
_stone_ has necessarily seen many revolutions of times and masters in
the course of its day. It graced for a long time the warlike standard
of the brave clan Gregor, combining, as the upholsterer says, “great
ornament with much utility;” for, while it served to set off not a
little those splendid banners, it invariably secured their followers
victory over their contending foes. It afterwards returned to the
Willox family, with whom it has continued to the present day. It could
not descend to a race of gentlemen who could do greater justice to its
excellent qualities, and certainly the fault cannot be traced to the
present proprietor, if, during his liferent use of it, the stone has
lost an iota of its former celebrity.
Whatever might have been the ornamental qualities of this wonderful
_stone_ in the days of yore, it has now no great ornaments to boast of.
It is a plain-looking article, strongly resembling the knob or bottom
of a crystal bottle; and were it not that Mr. Willox solemnly assured
us of his having been told by the great Lord Henderland himself, it
must have at one time composed one of the Pleiades, we should have had
much difficulty in believing it to consist of any other substance; but
who could resist such respectable authority?[H] Although Mr. Willox
informed us that a single collision with the ground would instantly
divest it of all its wonderful virtues, the stone certainly bears _ex
facie_ marks of rough usage, and even such inauspicious accidents as
coming into contact with the ground, or perhaps harder materials, in
its time. However, the _stone_ itself will tell no secrets, and on the
subject of accidents of this sort it is the proprietor’s interest to be
equally mute.
But whatever may be the nature and qualities of this stone, its virtues
are sufficiently notorious. A single immersion of it into a hogshead
of water instantaneously communicates to it such inconceivable virtue,
that one drop of it is sufficient to cure the most desperate case of
witchcraft in the land. Nor do the prevention and cure of witchcraft
alone constitute the stone’s sole line of business;--for a valuable
reward, there is no secret or calamity natural to man or beast in all
this wide world, but it will reveal or prevent.--_Exemple gratia_:
should some miserable vagabond of a thief, residing within the pale of
Mr. Willox’s celebrity, be so fool-hardy as to lay his dishonest hands
upon the goods or chattels of a neighbour, recovery of the goods, or at
least an exposure of the thief, is the absolute consequence. The loser
of the goods looks about him for his purse, and immediately proceeds to
consult the GRAND ORACLE, Mr. Grigor Willox, as to the person who had
the effrontery to steal his goods. Mr. Willox, willing to afford every
information on reasonable terms, instantly produces the black stocking
containing the stone, a single dip of which clearly developes the whole
circumstance. After a long consultation, involving some inquiries as
to suspected characters, the lynx-eyed Mr. Willox easily recognises
some figures reflected on the vessel containing the water by the stone,
conveying an exact representation of some old hag not very reputable
for her habits, residing in the complainant’s neighbourhood; and thus
all doubt is removed as to his suspicions being too well founded.
It is no subject for wonder, then, that this Great Oracle should be
so highly prized and suitably encouraged. With commendable regard
to the good of his beloved countrymen, Mr. Willox is in the habit
of _occasionally_ making a tour of pleasure through the counties of
Inverness, Ross, and Caithness, whence, after some weeks’ absence, he
returns home, with the double satisfaction of thinking, that while he
has, in the course of his rambles, conferred the greatest benefit on
suffering humanity, he has, at the same time, a good deal improved
his own pecuniary resources. Those occasional peregrinations of this
gentleman are now become absolutely necessary. Funds are not only very
low in these bad times, but Mr. Willox is convinced more and more,
every day he rises, of the truth of that proverb, “A prophet has no
honour in his own country;” and he therefore finds it no less his
interest than his duty to take a trip, as occasion suggests, to see his
friends in the _Duigh Tua_.[I] For the most part, however, he resides
at his seat of Gaulrig in Strathavon (usually called Strathdown),
where, like the late Doctor Samuel Solomon, inventor and proprietor of
that renovating cordial the Balm of Gilead, he may be consulted, either
personally or by letter post paid, on payment of the usual compliment
of a pound note. Accordingly, there are pilgrimages made to Gaulrig
as well as to Gilead House. It is no rare matter for the inhabitants
of both sides of the Avon to fall in with unfortunate pilgrims, whose
longitude of face and decrepitude of limbs indicate the extent of their
misfortunes and the length of their journey, inquiring the way for
_Taigh Maishter Willack_.