The Brownie of Bodsbeck (Volume 1&2). James Hogg
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that was next Walter.—“Fair fa’ your heart, Maron,” said he, “we’ll say nae mair about it; but, my woman, we maun crack about our bits o’ hame affairs, an’ I had the strongest reasons for coming to the truth o’ yon; however, I’ll try ither means.—But, Maron Linton, there’s anither thing, that in spite o’ my heart is like to breed me muckle grief, an’ trouble, an’ shame.—Maron, has the Brownie o’ Bodsbeck been ony mair seen about the town?”
“Troth, gudeman, ye’re aye sae hard i’ the belief—wi’ a’ your kindness to me and mine, ye hae a dour, stiff, unbowsome kind o’ nature in ye—it’ll hardly souple whan steepit i’ yer ain e’esight—but I can tell ye for news, ye’ll no hae a servant about yer house, man, woman, nor boy, in less than a fortnight, if this wicked and malevolent spirit canna be put away—an’ I may say i’ the language o’ Scripture, ‘My name is Legion, for we are many.’ It’s no ae Brownie, nor twa, nor half–a–score, that’s about the house, but a great hantle—they say they’re ha’f deils ha’f fock—a thing that I dinna weel understand. But how many bannocks think ye I hae baken in our house these eight days, an’ no a crust o’ them to the fore but that wee bit on your trencher?”
“I little wot, gudewife; maybe half–a–dizen o’ dizens.”
“Half–a–dizen o’ dizens, gudeman!—aye sax dizen o’ dizens!—a’ the meal girnels i’ the country wadna stand it, let abee the wee bit meal ark o’ Chapelhope.”
“Gudewife, I’m perfectly stoundit. I dinna ken what to say, or what to think, or what to do; an’ the mair sae o’ what I have heard sin’ I gaed to the hill—Auld John o’ the Muir, our herd, wha I ken wadna tell a lee for the Laird o’ Drumelzier’s estate, saw an unco sight the night afore last.”
“Mercy on us, gudeman! what mair has been seen about the town?”
“I’ll tell ye, gudewife—on Monanday night he cam yont to stop the ewes aff the hogg–fence, the wind being eissel—it was a wee after midnight, an’ the moon wasna just gane down—he was sittin i’ the scug o’ a bit cleuch–brae, when, or ever he wist, his dog Keilder fell a gurrin’ an’ gurrin’, as he had seen something that he was terrified for—John took him aneath his plaid, an’ held him, thinkin it was some sheep–stealers; but or it was lang he saw a white thing an’ a black thing comin’ up the Houm close thegither; they cam by within three catloups o’ him—he grippit his cudgel firm, an’ was aince gaun to gie them strength o’ arm, but his power failed him, an’ a’ his sinnens grew like dockans; there was a kind o’ glamour cam o’er his een too, for a’ the hope an’ the heaven grew as derk as tar an’ pitch—but the settin moon shone even in their faces, and he saw them as weel as it had been fore–day. The tane was a wee bit hurklin crile of an unearthly thing, as shrinkit an’ wan as he had lien seven years i’ the grave; the tither was like a young woman—an’ what d’ye think? he says he’ll gang to death wi’t that it was outher our dochter or her wraith.”
Maron lifted up her eyes and her clasped hands toward the ceiling, and broke out with the utmost vehemence into the following raving ejaculation:—“O mercy, mercy! Watie Laidlaw!—O, may Him that dwalls atween the Sherubeams be wi’ us, and preserve us and guide us, for we are undone creatures!—O, Watie Laidlaw, Watie Laidlaw! there’s the wheel within the wheel, the mystery o’ Babylon, the mother of harlots, and abominations of the earth——”
“Maron Linton!—What are ye sayin?—Haud yer tongue, Maron Linton.”
“O gudeman, I thought it was the young fallows ye jaloosed her wi’—I wish it had. I wad rather hae seen her i’the black stool, in the place where repentance is to be hoped for; but now she’s i’the deil’s ain hands. I jaloosed it, Watie—I kend it—I was sure o’t lang syne—our bairn’s changed—she’s transplanted—she’s no Keaty Laidlaw now, but an unearthly creature—we might weel hae kend that flesh an’ blude cude never be sae bonny—Goodman, I hae an awsome tale to tell ye—Wha think ye was it that killed Clavers’ Highlanders?”
“That, I suppose, will remain a mystery till the day when a’ secrets will be cleared up, an’ a’ the deeds o’ darkness brought to light.”
“Sae may it be, Watie! Sae may it be! But it was neither ane nor other but our ain only dochter Kate.”
“Ye’re ravin, Maron—troth, ye’re gaun daft—a bit sklendry lassie o’ aughteen kill sae mony armed Highlanders?—Hout fye! keep within bounds, Maron.”
“I heard her wi’ thir lugs it’s i’my head—Stannin on that very room floor, I heard her gie the orders to her Brownie. She was greetin whan I cam in—I listened and heard her saying, while her heart was like to loup, ‘Wae’s me! O wae’s me! or mid–day their blood will be rinning like water!—The auld an’ the young, the bonny an’ the gude, the sick an’ the woundit—That blude may cry to Heaven, but the cauld earth will drink it up; days may be better, but waur they canna be! Down wi’ the clans, Brownie, and spare nae ane.’ In less than ten minutes after that, the men were found dead. Now, Watie, this is a plain an’ positive truth.”
Walter’s blood curdled within him at this relation. He was superstitious, but he always affected to disbelieve the existence of the Brownie, though the evidences were so strong as not to admit of any doubt; but this double assurance, that his only daughter, whom he loved above all the world besides, was leagued with evil spirits, utterly confounded him. He charged his wife, in the most solemn manner, never more, during her life, to mention the mysterious circumstance relating to the death of the Highland soldiers. It is not easy to conceive a pair in more consummate astonishment than Walter and his spouse were by the time the conversation had reached this point. The one knew not what to think, to reject, or believe—the other believed all, without comprehending a single iota of that she did believe; her mind endeavoured to grasp a dreadful imaginary form, but the dimensions were too ample for its reasoning powers; they were soon dilated, burst, and were blown about, as it were, in a world of vision and terror.
Chapter II
Before proceeding with the incidents as they occurred, which is the common way of telling a story in the country, it will be necessary to explain some circumstances alluded to in the foregoing chapter.
Walter Laidlaw rented the extensive bounds of Chapelhope from the Laird of Drummelzier. He was a substantial, and even a wealthy man, as times went then, for he had a stock of 3000 sheep, cattle, and horses; and had, besides, saved considerable sums of money, which he had lent out to neighbouring farmers who were not in circumstances so independent as himself.
He had one only daughter, his darling, who was adorned with every accomplishment which the country could then afford, and with every grace and beauty that a country maiden may possess. He had likewise two sons, who were younger than she, and a number of shepherds and female servants.
The time on which the incidents here recorded took place, was, I believe, in the autumn of the year 1685, the most dismal and troublous time that these districts of the south and west of Scotland ever saw, or have since seen. The persecution for religion then raged in its wildest and most unbridled fury: the Covenanters, or the whigs, as they were then called, were proscribed, imprisoned, and at last hunted down like wild beasts. Graham, Viscount of Dundee, better known by the detested name of Clavers, set loose his savage troopers upon those peaceful districts, with peremptory orders to plunder, waste, disperse, and destroy the conventiclers, wherever they might be found.
All the outer parts of the lands of Chapelhope are broken into thousands of deep black ruts, called by the country people moss haggs. Each of the largest of these has a green stripe along its bottom; and in this place in particular they are so numerous, so intersected and complex in their lines, that, as a hiding–place, they are unequalled—men, foxes, and sheep, may all there find cover with equal safety from being discovered, and may hide for days and nights without being aware of one another.