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 God'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!" ejaculated 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 nobody 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 entitled.
He was immediately elevated to the place which, in those days, was reserved
in every cranium for the throne of the genius of superstition; 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, superstition,
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 passing
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 passed, and exhibited him first to a company of
guysers who were chanting at the door of Will Pearson--
"O lusty 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!" passed 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 passages 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 assumed 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 assistance; 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 flourishing and noble
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 compass 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 pushing-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-fashioned 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."
And he held out the bottle to Rob, after having put it bodily to his mouth,
and taking a long draught as an example to the latter, who was known to
despise flasks. Rob turned up his eyes to the Virgin, and got from her some
confidence, if not courage. He looked at the tempting bottle, beautiful in
its fulness and total freedom from the contaminating society of flasks or
tankards; then he turned a fearful eye on its laughing, rioting possessor,
and anon sought again the face of the saint.
"Hast lost thine ancient spirit, Rob Paterson?" said the stranger. What
hath that spare figure, made of dry wood, to do with the mellow fuddling of
our noses? Come, man--Time flies; let us wet his wings, and keep him
fluttering a while over our heads.
"'With an O and an I,
Now are we furder found,
Drink thou to me, and I to thee,
And let the cup go round.'"
"But wha, in the Devil's name, are ye?" now said Rob Paterson, after many
an ineffectual effort to put the question.
"Ha! ha!" answered the stranger, "does Rob Paterson ask a man who is
introduced by this friend of noble red-blood, who he is? Why, man, I am Rob
Paterson's tosspot. Isn't that enough?"
"No quite," answered Rob, drawing nearer the Virgin. "Satan himself might
use the same words; and I crave the liberty to say in your presence, that I
hae nae wish to be on drinking terms wi' his Majesty."
And Rob eyed him fearfully as he thus alluded to the subject of the town's
fears, and again sought the face of the saint.
"Ah, Rob Paterson, my once cherished toper," replied the stranger, "I
sorrow for thy change. Thine ancient spirit has left thee, and thou hast
taken up with wooden idols, in place of the well-filled jolly bottle of thy
and my former love. Well, may the Devil take on for't!--I care not. Thou
mayst repent of thy folly when I am gone.
"'Robene thou has hard soung and say,
In gesties and stories auld--
The man that will not quhen he may,
Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.'"
Never mair, Rob Paterson, shalt thou have offer of spirit of wine. It shall
go there first!"
And, taking a mouthful of the red liquor, the stranger squirted it in the
fire, and raised a mighty flame that flared out into the very middle of the
street, and produced another echoing cry or scream from the terrified
inhabitants. He departed in an instant, and left Rob in a state of
agitation he had never felt before at the departure of a guest with a
well-filled bottle of good liquor.
The stranger passed out at the door with his usual bold precipitude, and
again plied his long limbs in making huge strides along the street, for the
house of another crony. He took no notice of the extraordinary demeanour of
the inhabitants, who were seen flying away from corners and angles where
they had nestled, for the purpose of seeing him come out in a flame of fire
from Rob Paterson's, as he had done from Will Pearson's. He strode on,
neither looking to the right nor to the left, till he came to Widow
Lindsay's.
"A good new year to thee, Dame Lindsay!" said he, as he entered the house
by opening the door, which the widow thought she had barred when she shoved
the bolt beyond the staple, and found her sitting by the fire counting her
rosary, and muttering prayers, with eyes upturned to heaven.
"Holy Mary, save me!" she muttered, as she heard him enter by the supposed
locked door. "He's come at last." And she retreated to a corner of the
room, and prayed fervently for deliverance.
"Thy throat has doubtless good memory of me and mine," continued the
stranger, as he placed on the table the same extraordinary bottle, the
shape and dimensions of which were as vivid in the mind of Dame Lindsay as
was the colour of the red cravat. "My male tosspots have forgot the taste
of my red liquor," he continued; "but what wet gossip's throat ever forgot
what nipped it. Come, dame, and let us have a right hearty jorum of this
inimitable drink." And, for want of better measure, he seized lustily a
bicker that lay near him, and dashed a quantity of the liquor into it. "Ha!
I forgot. Get thee for Meg Johnston thy gossip, dame, and let us be merry
together. Meg is a woman of a thousand. What a lusty hold she takes of a
brimming bicker, and how her eye lightens and brightens as she surveys the
swimming heaven under her nose! Come, dame--what ails?"
The only reply he got was a groan, and the rustle of Dame Lindsay's
quivering habiliments.
"By my own saint, this town of Christ's Kirk has a change upon it!" he
continued. "Last time I was here, it was as merry as King James when he
sang of it. The young and the old hailed me as the prince of good fellows,
and the wenches and wives--ha! ha!
"'To dans thir damysells them dight,
Thir lasses light of laits;
They were sae skych when I them nicht,
They squeild like ony gaits.'"
Dame Lindsay, I perceive what thou wantest, to melt thee into thy former
jollity. Thou'rt coquetting in the corner there for a kiss; and, by the
holy rude, thou shalt not want it for the space of the twinkling of thine
eye."
He rose for the purpose of applying the emollient he had threatened; but a
loud scream evinced that a woman, however much she may worship his Satanic
Majesty, cares not for his familiarities. The widow fainted; and what may
be supposed her feelings, when she found, on coming to herself, that that
identical and terrific red liquor had had a share in her recovery! Again
she screamed; but no kindly neighbour came to rescue her from her perilous
situation. Those who heard her cries, had many strange thoughts as to what
species of punishment she was undergoing, for her sins. The conjectures
were endless. "What could he be doing to Widow Lindsay?" was the universal
question. Some supposed that she was in the act of being carried off, and
was struggling to get out of his talons; some looked for the passing flame,
in the midst of which, the poor widow, clasped in his arms, would be seen
on her luminous journey to the lower world; and there were not few who
pretended to find, in the past life of the wretched victim, a very good
legitimate cause for the visit of the stranger, and the severity he was
clearly exercising towards her.
"Thou'lt be the better for thy faint, Widow Lindsay," said the stranger, as
she recovered, "seeing that what blood it has sent from thy heart, will be
returned with the addition of that liquor which is truly the water of life.
Dost forget, good widow, that, when I was last here, thou and Meg Johnston
would have fought for a can of it, if I had not made the can two? Come now,
and let us fuddle our noses till they be as red as the liquor itself, and
thy spectacles shew thee two noses, before they melt with the heat of their
ruby supporter.
"'However this world do change and vary,
Oh, let us in heart never more be sary.'"
"Avaunt ye! in the name o' the five holy wounds!" muttered the widow, as
she held up the Sathanifuge crow in his face.
"Well, and if thou wilt not, here goes!" replied he, as he threw the
contents of the bicker in the fire, which blazed up till the house seemed,
to those waiting fearfully in the distance, to be in flames.
Many an eye was now directed to the door and windows, to see Widow Lindsay
take her pyromantic flight through the flaming fields of ether; and they
continued their gaze till they saw him of the red cravat sally forth, when
fear closed up the vision, and they saw no more. Meanwhile he strode on,
singing all the way--
"Full oft I muse, and be's in thocht;
How this false world is aye on flocht,"
till he came to the door of Meg Johnston's cottage. He found it deserted;
and then stalked on to honest John Simson's, which was in like manner
empty.
"What can this mean?" he said to himself, as he bent his long steps to Wat
Webster's, where fearful messengers, as we have seen, had already preceded
him. "My person has lost its charm, my converse its interest, and my drink
its spirit-stirring power. But we shall see what Wat Webster and his Dame
Kitty, and the fair Marion, say to the residue of my authority. Ah, Marion,
as I think of thee--
"'How heises and bleizes
My heart wi' sic a fyre,
As raises these praises
That do to heaven aspire.'"
"Ha! ha! I will there outdevil all my devilries. My fire-chariots have as
yet flown off without a passenger; but this night I shall not go home
alone."
And he continued striding onwards in the deserted and silent passage, till
he came to Wat Webster's, where the collected inmates were all huddled
together round the fire, in that state of alarm produced by the
intelligence of Christy Lowry and Widow Lindsay, and already partly set
forth by us heretofore. Bang up went the door.
"A good new year to ye all!" said he, as he stalked into the middle of the
apartment.
There was a dead silence throughout the company. Marion was the only
individual that dared to look him in the face; and there was an expression
in her eye that seemed to have the effect of increasing the boisterous glee
of his mysterious manner.
"Here we are once more, again," he continued, as he took out the eternal
imp-shaped bottle, and clanged it on the table.