Sir Walter Scott, the "Great Unknown"--His belief in
Superstition--How his Tales of Fiction are composed--A
Town-Clerk frightened by an Apparition--A Ghost that
did not understand Erse, but could communicate in
Latin--Lovel and Edie Ochiltree--Discovery of Hidden
Treasure by Occult Science--"Rob Roy"--Fairies'
Caverns--Supposed Apparition in the Trossachs--Elfin
People at the Firth of Forth--A Minister taken away by
Fairies--Dame Glendinning's Tale--Lines from
"Marmion"--A Fairy Knight--Mysterious Steed.
Sir Walter Scott, the "Great Unknown," was sensibly affected by his
country's tales of witches, fairies, and ghosts. Whether the fear he
entertained proceeded from early impressions, or whether an awe
imperceptibly crept over him, through his frequent communings with old
people (when he was in more advanced life) who had no doubt of the
existence of witches and spirits, good and bad, visiting the earth,
and performing acts of benevolence or malevolence, according to the
inclination or caprice of the uncanny or unearthly agent, we cannot
say; but of one thing there can be no doubt, that even in years of
maturity he believed there were spirits that appeared to men, and
assisted them to perform actions they could not have done without
superhuman aid, and that by such beings future events were made known.
Were it not for the dash of superstition he threw here and there into
his tales, they would be comparatively of a commonplace description.
Like other writers of fiction, or authors whose writings rest on a
slender foundation of truth, Sir Walter Scott often brings forward a
witch, wizard, gipsy, fairy, ghost, and other spirits. A haunted
castle, a fortune-teller, and a good or evil genius are as
indispensable in a good story as a cruel parent, a rich uncle, and a
disappointed lover. None knew better than the great Scottish novelist
how to work on his readers' feelings; and hence his success.
Sir Walter tells, in the _Antiquary_, a story of Rab Tull, the
town-clerk, being in an old house searching for important documents,
but who was obliged to go to bed without finding them. The bodie had
got such a custom of tippling and tippling with his drunken cronies,
that he could not sleep without his punch, and as usual he took his
glass that evening. In the middle watches of night he had a fearful
wakening--he was never himself after it--and was stricken with the
dead palsy that very day four years. He thought he heard the bed
curtains move, and out he looked. Before him appeared an old gentleman
in a queer-fashioned dress. Rab, greatly frightened, asked the
apparition (for it was a spirit that stood before him) what it
wanted. The spirit answered in an unknown tongue. Rab replied in Erse,
but the spirit did not seem to understand this language. In his
strait, the clerk bethought him of two or three words of Latin he used
in making out the town's deeds; and no sooner had he tried the strange
object before him with these, than out came such a blatter of Latin,
that Rab Tull--who with all his pretensions was no great scholar--was
overwhelmed. It then made a sign to Rab to follow it. He followed
up-stairs and down-stairs to a tower in a corner of the house. There
the ghost pointed out a cabinet, and suddenly disappeared. In a drawer
of that repository the missing deed was found.
Lovel, after shooting M'Intyre in a duel, fled from justice, under the
guidance of old Edie Ochiltree. Exhausted by excitement and a long
walk through a thicket, they reached a cave with narrow entrance,
concealed by the boughs of an oak. Passing through the aperture, not
much larger than a fox-hole, they reached the interior. Lovel was led
to a narrow turnpike stair leading to a church above. In the evening
they reached a spot which commanded a full view of the chancel in
every direction. Ere long, Lovel was startled by the sound of human
voices. Two persons, with a dark lantern, entered the chancel. After
conversing together some time in whispers, Lovel recognised the voice
of Dousterswivel, pronouncing in a smothered tone, "Indeed, mine goot
sir, dere cannot be one finer hour nor season for dis great
purpose.... I will show you all de secrets dat art can show--ay, de
secret of de great Pymander." The other individual turned out to be
Sir Arthur Wardour, and their business evidently had reference to the
discovery of hidden treasure, by means of consulting the heavenly
bodies or some friendly spirit. Before Sir Arthur and Dousterswivel
left the ruins of St. Ruth, they found a casket containing gold and
silver coins. These two worthies, along with Mr. Oldenbuck, set out,
on another occasion to search for treasure at the ruins of St. Ruth.
Arrived at the scene of operations, the Antiquary addressed the adept
Dousterswivel: "Pray, Mr. Dousterswivel, shall we dig from east to
west, or from west to east? or will you assist us with your triangular
vial of May-dew, or with your divining-rod of witch-hazel?" This was
said tauntingly, yet nevertheless they proceeded to dig, in the hope
of finding treasure; and sure enough, a chest containing ingots of
silver to the value of a thousand pounds was discovered. Dousterswivel
claimed the credit of bringing about the discovery. Mr. Oldenbuck
refused to give him any credit, telling him that he came without
weapons, and did not use charms, lamen-sigel, talisman, spell-crystal,
pentacle, magic-mirror, nor geomantic figure. "Where," asked the
Antiquary, "be your periapts, and your abracadabras, man? your
May-fern, your vervain--
"Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your panther,
Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop,
Your Lato, Azoch, Zernich, Chibrit, Heautarit,
With all your broths, your menstrues, your materials,
Would burst a man to name?"
Dousterswivel, like all others who resort to enchantments, believing
in the existence of hobgoblins and divination, was not certain but his
own art had really contributed to the success of his party. Chagrined
at the treatment of Mr. Oldenbuck, and separated for a time from Sir
Arthur, he was glad to enter into conversation with Edie Ochiltree,
who witnessed the finding of the treasure with a keen eye to future
operations. Edie had surreptitiously obtained possession of the
treasure box-lid, and on it he and the conjurer were able to decipher,
"Search number one." The old beggar, who knew many of the traditions
of the country, told Dousterswivel that the remains of Malcolm the
Misticot were, along with a large amount of gold and silver, buried
somewhere at St. Ruth. Moreover, he recited the old prophecy:
"If Malcolm the Misticot's grave were fun',
The lands of Knockwinnock are lost and won."
They resolved to return to the ruins of St. Ruth at midnight to make
another search, not on account of Sir Arthur or Mr. Oldenbuck, but for
themselves. Neither gold nor silver were found; but those engaged in
the search got a fright, one supposing he saw evil spirits rising from
the earth's bowels, and the other that he was chased by a ghost on
horseback. A series of interesting incidents connected with adventure,
love, and crime follow. Dousterswivel was discovered to be an
impostor; certain persons engaged in a dark plot were cut off by
death, but the virtuous were rewarded.
Sir Walter Scott, in _Rob Roy_, makes mention of an eminence or mound
near the upland hills, whence the Forth springs, supposed by the
people in the neighbourhood to contain within its unseen caverns the
palaces of fairies; and in his Notes to _Rob Roy_ it is stated that
the lakes and precipices, amidst which the river Forth has its birth,
are still, according to popular tradition, haunted by elfin people. In
one note the reader is informed that the Rev. Robert Kirk, who died at
Aberfoyle in the year 1688, was supposed to have been taken away by
fairies. Mr. Kirk was walking near his manse on a _Dun Shie_, or fairy
mound, when he sank down apparently in a faint, and seemingly died.
The body was supposed to be buried, but shortly afterwards he appeared
in living form to a friend, to whom he told that he was not dead, but
in fairyland, whither he was carried at the time he fell down in a
swoon. The reverend captive gave directions how he might be rescued by
him; but the person who was appointed to perform the prescribed
ceremony failed to proceed as directed, and Mr. Kirk, who had been
twice seen after his supposed death, never appeared again.
* * * * *
As we are writing of Rob Roy's country, and of an incident connected
with the fate of a minister there, we suddenly break the thread of our
narrative, to introduce the particulars of a most extraordinary
circumstance connected with another clergyman in that quarter.
A few years ago, about 1870, a most respectable gentleman belonging to
Edinburgh, devoid of superstitious fear, told the writer: "In the
autumn I was enjoying the retirement and grandeur of the Trossachs and
surrounding district. The lake, the hill, the dale, and, above all,
the people, interested me. Often was I in the humble cot, and,
although a sojourner, I became acquainted with families in the more
exalted positions in society. Among others, I gained the friendship of
a venerable clergyman, whose charity and piety were known far and
near.
"While I had my residence in the Trossachs Hotel, the clergyman, I was
told, one day was dangerously ill. Next morning, before starting with
a few friends up Loch Katrine, I sent to inquire after the invalid's
health. The answer returned conveyed the impression that he was fast
sinking. We proceeded up the lake, and came back by the last boat for
the day. We took outside seats on the coach, and while turning a
corner of the road, about half-way between the lake and the hotel, I
and several other passengers (including the captain of the Loch
Katrine steamer and the driver) observed a gentleman passing us, whom
we all declared was the clergyman. Trusting our sight, we thought it
most extraordinary that a man, considered to be dying in the morning,
should be seen in the evening on the highway, far from home.
"The steamboat being unusually late of arriving at her destination,
the sun had gone down, and the shades of night were closing over us
before half our journey by coach could be accomplished, still it was
not so dark when the figure of the pious minister appeared but that
one might not only see the figure of a man, but observe his every
feature. The sight struck all, who recognised in the traveller the
invalid minister with amazement, and some with fear. On the coach
arriving at the hotel, a messenger was despatched to inquire after the
reverend gentleman's health. The answer received disclosed the
startling intelligence that the clergyman had expired shortly before
the time we saw his figure walking with slow step and sad countenance
towards Loch Katrine."
* * * * *
But we now return to Sir Walter Scott's works. Those who have read the
_Monastery_ (and who have not?) may recollect of Dame Glendinning
telling Tibb what she had seen on a Hallowe'en in her youth--which was
as follows:--
"Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but I favoured nane o' them;
and sae, at Hallowe'en, Father Nicolas the cellarer--he was cellarer
before his father, Father Clement, that now is--was cracking his nuts
and drinking his brown beer with us, and as blithe as might be, and
they would have me try a cantrip to ken wha suld wed me; and the monk
said there was nae ill in it, and if there was, he would assoil me for
it. And awa' I went into the barn to winnow my three weights o'
naething--sair, sair, my mind misgave me for fear of wrang-doing and
wrang-suffering, baith; but I had aye a bauld spirit. I had not
winnowed the last weight clear out, and the moon was shining bright
upon the floor, when in stalked the presence of my dear Simon
Glendinning, that is now happy. I never saw him plainer in my life
than I did that moment; he held up an arrow as he passed me, and I
swarf'd awa' wi' fright. Muckle wark there was to bring me to mysel'
again, and sair they tried to make me believe it was a trick o' Father
Nicolas and Simon between them, and that the arrow was to signify
Cupid's shaft, as the Father called it; and mony a time Simon wad
threep it to me after I was married--gude man, he liked not it suld be
said that he was seen out o' the body!--But mark the end o' it, Tibb:
we were married, and the grey-goose wing was the death o' him, after
a'!"
The following lines appear in _Marmion_ in reference to a combat with
a goblin knight:--
"Soon as the midnight bell did ring,
Alone, and armed, forth rode the King
To that old camp's deserted round:
Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound,
Left hand the town,--the Pictish race
The trench, long since, in blood did trace;
The moor around is brown and bare,
The space within is green and fair.
The spot our village children know,
For there the earliest wild flowers grow;
But woe betide the wandering wight,
That treads its circle in the night!
The breadth across, a bowshot clear,
Gives ample space for full career;
Opposed to the four points of heaven,
By four deep gaps is entrance given.
The southernmost our monarch passed,
Halted, and blew a gallant blast;
And on the north, within the ring,
Appeared the form of England's king,
Who then a thousand leagues afar,
In Palestine waged holy war:
Yet arms like England's did he wield,
Alike the leopards in the shield,
Alike his Syrian courser's frame,
The rider's length of limb the same:
Long afterwards did Scotland know
Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.
The vision made our monarch start,
But soon he manned his noble heart,
And in the first career they ran,
The Elfin Knight fell horse and man;
Yet did a splinter of his lance
Through Alexander's visor glance,
And razed the skin--a puny wound.
The king, light leaping to the ground,
With naked blade his phantom foe
Compelled the future war to show.
Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,
Where still gigantic bones remain,
Memorial of the Danish war;
Himself he saw amid the field,
On high his brandished war-axe wield,
And strike proud Haco from his car,
While all around the shadowy kings,
Denmark's grim ravens cowered their wings.
'Tis said that, in that awful night,
Remoter visions met his sight,
Foreshowing future conquests far,
When our sons' sons wage northern war;
A royal city, tower and spire,
Reddened the midnight sky with fire;
And shouting crews her navy bore,
Triumphant, to the victor shore.
Such signs may learned clerks explain,
They pass the wit of simple swain.
The joyful king turned home again,
Headed his host and quelled the Dane;
But yearly, when returned the night
Of his strange combat with the sprite,
His wound must bleed and smart;
Lord Gifford then would gibing say,
'Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay
The penance of your start.'
Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave,
King Alexander fills his grave,
Our Lady give him rest!
Yet still the nightly spear and shield
The elfin warrior doth wield,
Upon the brown hill's breast;
And many a knight hath proved his chance
In the charmed ring to break a lance,
But have all foully sped;
Save two, as legends tell, and they
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.--
Gentles, my tale is said."
One of Sir Walter Scott's poetic effusions has reference to a popular
story concerning a fairy knight:--
"Osbert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a noble family in the
vicinity of Wandlebury, in the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories
related in the social circle of his friends (who, according to custom,
amused each other by repeating ancient tales and traditions), he was
informed, that if any knight, unattended, entered an adjacent plain by
moonlight, and challenged an adversary to appear, he would be
immediately encountered by a spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert
resolved to make the experiment, and set out, attended by a single
squire, whom he ordered to remain without the limits of the plain,
which was surrounded by an ancient entrenchment. On repeating the
challenge, he was instantly assailed by an adversary, whom he quickly
unhorsed, and seized the reins of his steed. During this operation,
his ghostly opponent sprang up, and darting his spear like a javelin
at Osbert, wounded him in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with
the horse, which he committed to the care of his servants. The horse
was of a sable colour, as well as his whole accoutrements, and
apparently of great beauty and vigour. He remained with his keepers
till cock-crowing, when, with eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned
the ground, and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert perceived that
he was wounded, and that one of his steel boots was full of blood.
Gervase adds, that as long as he lived, the scar of his wound opened
afresh on the anniversary of the eve on which he encountered the
spirit."