Grant.—Depend upon it, this warlock must be no ordinary man.
Dominie.—I have another anecdote of him. A certain farmhouse in Strathspey was said to be haunted. Stones and dust and rubbish were thrown into the middle of the family apartment, and no one could discover whence or from what hand they came. Mr. John Grant, the minister of the parish, was sent for to lay the ghost; and to the great comfort of those to whom the house belonged, he came accompanied by Willox.
“While I am engaged in going through the evening family worship,” said the parson to Willox, “do you keep your eyes on the alert, and try to ascertain whence the missiles appear to come.”
The minister began the duties of the evening. A psalm was sung. During the time the people present were singing it, the volleys were discontinued; but the moment the psalm was ended, the discharges again commenced.
“We had better sing another psalm,” whispered Willox to the parson. Mr. Grant immediately gave out some verses accordingly. The disturbance ceased as before; but they were no sooner concluded, than it began again with redoubled fury. The sharp eyes of Willox shot like lightning into every part of the chamber. In an instant they were arrested by one of those great clumsy wooden partitions so common in our Highland farmers’ humble dwellings, which, being boarded on both sides, rise up a certain height only towards the bare rafters above, leaving the vast vacuity below the roof undivided from end to end of the building. Willox gave a preconcerted sign to the parson.
“My friends,” said Mr. Grant, “I insist that the boxing of that partition be immediately opened up.”
His orders were obeyed, and no sooner were the boards removed than the ghost was discovered. A little black Highland herd lassie sat cowering within, her face filled with dread of the punishment that awaited her. The creature had managed from time to time to creep in there by lifting up a loose plank, and from that concealment she had contrived to throw her missiles over the open top of the partition into the apartment, all which she had done to revenge herself against the family for having been whipped for some piece of negligence of which she had been guilty. The parson had no sooner learned these particulars, than he pounced upon the trembling culprit, like a great mastiff on a mouse, and dragging her forth, he, without the least delay or ceremony, gave her, to use his own phrase, a good skegging.
Clifford.—Had Mr. Grant and Willox been sent for, the celebrated ghost of Cock Lane would have had but a short reign of it.
Dominie.—I have but one story more of Willox to plague you with. William Stuart, a farmer in Brae Moray, was led, by his father’s persuasion, and very much against his own inclination, to marry a woman whom he could not like, all because she possessed a certain tocher. He went to his marriage like a condemned thief to the gallows, and from the very first moment he treated his wife as an alien. A certain worthy lady in the neighbourhood, who felt interested in Mrs. Stuart, firmly believed that her husband’s dislike to her was occasioned by witchcraft. She accordingly sent for Willox, and entreated him to exercise his skill in the poor woman’s behalf, and the warlock undertook to do all in his power for her.
Having contrived to pay a visit at Stuart’s house, when he knew that he should find him at home, he accepted his invitation to stay to dine with him, and after they had had a cheerful glass together, Willox ventured to begin his attempt by drinking Mrs. Stuart’s health.