Wi’ cauk and keel I’ll win your bread,
And spindles and whorles for them wha need.
Whilk is a gentle trade indeed,
To carry the Gaberlunzie on.
--_The Gaberlunzie-man._
As the self-exiled Eustace pursued his route, in troubled reverie, he
was soon hailed by a masculine voice from a straggling thicket near
the wayside. Glancing in that direction, he saw a man issue from among
the trees, and step towards him. The man was in the humble garb of a
gaberlunzie, and seemed a fair representative of the trade of
mendicancy, which was numerously followed throughout the country in
that age, and for ages afterwards. At a little distance he looked
rather youngish; but on nearer approach he was seen to be elderly,
perhaps about his grand climacteric. He was tall, spare, and erect of
figure, lithe of limb, and with a shrewd, honest, weather-beaten, but
unwrinkled countenance, and short, iron-grey locks appearing from
under his broad blue bonnet. A wallet was slung at his back, and a
leathern pouch or purse at the side of his waist-belt, in which was
stuck a sheathed whinger, and he carried a stout _kent_ or long staff
with an iron spike at the end, which would prove a formidable weapon
when wielded in a fray by a strong hand. Eustace stopped, and was
saluted by the stranger, who doffed his bonnet and bowed low.
Understanding that the man’s object was the solicitation of charity,
Eustace gave him an alms which was received with effusive thanks, and
dropped into the pouch.
“You’ll be gaun the Greenholm way, master?” said the stranger,
deferentially.
“I am. But no farther than the village for the night.”
“Weel, master, I’m just gaun the same gate: and aiblins you winna be
offended though a gaberlunzie should jog at your heels?”
Eustace looked at him, with a complacent smile, without replying to
the question; but the smile seemed to be intended and accepted as a
negative reply. They went on together, side by side.
“It’s a braw and bonnie nicht,” said the beggar, surveying the
surrounding scenery with a gratified eye, and pointing here and there
with his staff. “A braw May nicht indeed. Look to the lift--look to
the earth--there’s beauty owre a’. See--the parting beams o’ the sun
linger on the bald, rocky brow o’ yon hill, like a crown o’ glory,
while a’ the dell aneath is losing itsel’ in the shadow, and the haze
is rising that will soon ha’e the appearance o’ a loch. You hear the
sweet sangs o’ the birds, the sough o’ the westland wind, and the
everlasting plash o’ yon burnie that gushes owre its linn. The gowden
clouds are sailing solemnly as if to strains o’ angel-music. How
pleasant to wander, free as air, amang Nature’s charms!”
“It is so,” said Eustace, surprised at the elevation of the beggar’s
tone. “But life passes through gloom and storm as well as through
sunshine. We have our flowery May, and we have our wintry December. In
some deep cleugh among the hills patches of last December’s snow will
still be lying.”
“Ay, truly,” returned the mendicant, glancing keenly at the youth.
“And, if I may presume, you seem to me, frae your words, to ha’e borne
the brunt o’ a stormy fortune, though you’re o’ gentle rank, and in
the morning o’ life, and no a grey carle like me, wha has warsled wi’
the warld sae lang an’ sair.”
“No one, whatsoever his station, is exempt from the frowns of fickle
Fortune,” said Eustace. “In sooth, the more exalted the station, the
more exposed is it to adverse blasts.”
“True, master, true,” responded the gaberlunzie. “The whirlwind, or
the levin’-bolt, that rives and scatters in flinders the sturdy oak o’
a hunder years, spares the wee bush that grows lowly at its root.”
“But how came you, who must have been a man of mettle in your prime,
to take to this wandering life?” questioned Eustace. “The world must
have gone ill with you.”
“Ay, master, just as it has gane ill wi’ mony a better man,” answered
the gaberlunzie, with a dry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “I was
born and bred in a peasant’s cot in the Lothians, and mony a year I
spent in the service o’ my faither’s Laird. But service, you ken, is
nae inheritance: and I ne’er rase aboon the lot o’ a simple hind,
trauchling frae morning till nicht. I saw a’ my kith and kin laid
aneath the yird. Sae I flung the gaberlunzie-wallet ower my shouther,
and here I am.”
“And is the trade better to your liking and your profit?”
“Muckle better,” replied the wanderer. “I stravaig the country at my
ain will, and the calling thrives wi’ me. I use my e’en and lugs, and
aften see and hear what ithers dinna dream o’. A Border mosstrooper is
aye richt glad to pay for my tidings, whilk may shew him how to mak’ a
stroke o’ gude luck, or to save his neck frae the gallows. The same
wi’ a Border knicht or baron, wha may be threatened wi’ the onfa o’ an
enemy. Again, if a fair dame, shut up in her faither’s bower, has a
love message to send to the lad o’ her heart, wha sae able to carry
it, whether by word o’ mouth or in a sealed billet, as Willie
Harthill, the gaberlunzie? I pass free frae the clay-bigging to the
lordly ha’, and am aye welcome. Sae, master, the trade thrives weel,
and if the times were mair troubled, it micht thrive better--wha
kens?”
The wayfarer soon came within sight of the hamlet of Greenholm, which
lay nestled in a hollow among grassy hills, whose sides were dotted
with sheep, which shepherds and their dogs were collecting to fold for
the night.
Eustace was asking some question when Willie stopped him with--“Hush!
master. We are coming to haunted ground. Do you see thae
bourochs--thae bonnie green knowes, that are freshened by the
sweetest dew and blessed by the silveriest moonshine at midnicht
hours?”
“Haunted ground!” muttered Eustace, not without a faint feeling of
awe. He saw on one side of the path several gentle knolls, covered
with verdure, and environed by broom bushes like a hedge; and coming
nearer he perceived on the knolls some of those gracefully-formed
grassy circles which so long perplexed the ignorance, and confirmed
the superstition, of bygone ages. Tracing those mystic rounds, the
Fairies were believed to dance their gay galliards in the moonlight.
Our travellers paused a moment to contemplate the scene of Elfin
revelry.
“You’ll ha’e whiles seen the _gude neighbours_, master?” said the
gaberlunzie.
“Never,” answered Eustace; “the fairies are but figments of the
imagination.”
“Dinna ca’ them by that name, whatever you may think o’ them,” said
the other hastily. “You may freely ca’ them _gude neighbours_; but
_seelie wichts_ is the name they like best; for they say themsells--
“’Gin you ca’ me _Imp_ or _Elf_,
I rede you look weel to yourself:
Gin you ca’ me _Fairy_,
I’ll work you muckle tarrie:
Gin _Gude neighbour_ you ca’ me,
Then gude neighbour I will be:
But gin you ca’ me _Seelie wicht_,
I’ll be your friend baith day and nicht.”
“My forbears ha’e seen them: and I saw them twice mysel’ langsyne on
the green at the burn-side ahint our laird’s Grange. What mair proof
wad you seek? And as to their rings on the grass, the auld rhyme
says--na, we maun gang on a bit,” he said, checking himself, “we maun
get ayont the bourochs before I venture on a rhyme that ca’s the
seelie wichts by a wrang name.”
They jogged on beyond the knolls, and then Willie, believing himself
out of supernatural danger, recited the following words of
warning--which, however, he did not presume to aver were the
composition of some fairy versifier:--
“He wha gaes by the fairy ring,
Nae dule nor pine shall see;
And he wha cleans the fairy ring,
An easy death shall dee.
But he wha tills the fairies’ green,
Nae luck again shall ha’e;
And he wha spills the fairies ring,
Betide him want and wae;
For weirdless days and weary nichts
Are his till his dying day.”
Our travellers soon reached the outskirts of the village, which was
situated at the foot of a hill, with a shallow stream running in front
of the cottages, which all stood, in irregular order, on its farther
bank. A few old and gnarled trees raised their leafy heads above the
roofs. In the back-ground appeared a lofty square tower of the order
known on the Border as _Peels_ or _Peelhouses_, to which the
neighbouring cottagers usually resorted for protection against an
inroading enemy. The Peel had scarcely any windows save near the
battlemented roof; but the walls were pierced with many shot-holes,
and it was surrounded by a high and thick wall, with a strong portal.
In the vicinity was a mound, on which stood a moss-monolith or
stone-pillar, perhaps the last remnant of a Druidical circle, or
perhaps the memorial of some doughty warrior who fell in battle ages
before.
The hamlet looked poor and miserable, being composed of about a score
of clay-walled and thatched cottages, which, on the occasion of an
English inroad, would be unroofed and left empty, to let the foes work
what ravage they might; but there being little or nothing to burn, the
huts could be restored when the foray was over. The burn was bridged
here and there by old planks, and stepping-stones were also seen in
the water at different places. A troop of half-clad children romped
about the burn-side; and some old men sate at doors, in the evening
light, repairing rude implements of husbandry. When the two travellers
were perceived by the youngsters, they eyed them attentively, and
then, with a shrill outburst of delight, came running forward, and
danced about the gaberlunzie, like the very elves of whom he had been
speaking. He patted the heads of the girls, and chucked the chins of
the boys, saying, meanwhile, to Eustace--“The bairns a’ ken the
gaberlunzie. But are you kent here?”
“I am a stranger to the place,” answered Eustace.
Willie then addressed the merry group around him--“Enough o’ daffing,
bairns. Come awa’ and let me get into ane o’ your couthy hames; for I
am sair wearied this nicht wi’ lang travel.”
The imps set up another shout, and proceeded to escort the twain to
the village, where most of the cottagers were attracted to their doors
by the clamour.
“Weel, master,” said Willie, “will you condescend sae far as tae tak’
pat-luck wi’ me, or maun you ha’e a lodging for yoursel’?”
“One lodging will serve us both for the night,” answered Eustace. “I
am not proud, and I am glad of an honest companion. I neither know nor
care whether the people here recognise me; but recognition would do me
no harm. Meantime you can tell them, if required, that I had lost my
way before meeting with you.”
“And what name do you pass under?”
“Ruthven Somervil,” returned Eustace, without hesitation, having
previously decided on that adoption. The surname was an honourable one
on the Border, and had been so since the legendary times when an early
Somervil killed a serpent or dragon that kept its lair in a wild glen
of Linton parish in Roxburghshire--as the old rhyme commemorates:
The wode Laird of Laristone
Slew the worm of Worm’s Glen,
And wan all Linton parochine.
“But,” added Eustace, “you need repeat the name to nobody.”
The cottagers greeted the gaberlunzie with kindly welcome; and the
dress of Eustace bespoke for him a respectful reception, no one
seeming to know who or what he was. A grey-headed sire and his dame
invited the travellers into their dwelling. Homely viands were set
before them, of which they partook with relish--Eustace being served
apart. When the meal was over, neighbours came in, and solicited
Willie to sing them some of his stock of songs. He complied, and a
full supply of nappy liquor being procured at Eustace’s expense,
The nicht drave on wi’ sangs an clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better.
When the jovial company broke up, the aged host showed Eustace into a
closet, furnished with a couch, and then bade the gaberlunzie ascend
by a trap-stair to the loft above, where he would find a sleeping
place. Eustace stretched himself on his couch, and slumber speedily
overtook him. He slept soundly until the morning sun, beaming on his
face, awoke him from strange dreams.