A NIGHT IN DUNCAN M‘GOWAN’S.
After traversing a bleak and barren track of moorland country, I unexpectedly arrived at the village of Warlockheugh, a few hours before the sun had set upon the cheerless and level horizon of that desolate region. A scene so bleak and solitary had engendered a vague and melancholy feeling of individual helplessness and desertion; the morning buoyancy of my spirits had settled down into dull and dejected sympathy with the exhausted members of my body; the sharp, clear air that blew across the moor had whetted my appetite to an exquisite degree of keenness, so that I was not a little disposed to mingle once more with human society, to invigorate my limbs with another night’s repose, and to satisfy the cravings of hunger with some necessary refreshment. I therefore entered the village at a quicker pace than I had exerted for the last ten or twelve miles of my journey.
It is situated in a narrow valley, which slopes away from the moorland side, and is surrounded by a ridge of rocks that rise around it like an iron barrier, and frown defiance to the threatened encroachments of the ocean. A dark brown stream floats along the moor with a lazy and silent current, bursts with a single leap over a precipice at the upper end of the village, thunders along a broken, rocky channel, and spouts a roaring cataract, sheer down through the rifted chasm that opens towards the coast, and affords the villagers a view of ocean, which, environed on all sides by tumultuous ranges of rugged mountains, expands its sheet of blue waters like an inland lake.
Having entered the village of Warlockheugh, I was attracted by the Red Lion that blazes on the sign of Duncan M‘Gowan, who kept then, and, as I understand, still keeps, “excellent entertainment for men and horses.” I was shown into Duncan’s best apartment, but had little leisure and no inclination to make an inventory of its contents. Hunger is an urgent creditor, and not to be reasoned with, so I ordered the landlord to fetch me some refreshment. My order was immediately succeeded by a most delightful concert of culinary implements, whose risp and clank, and clatter, and jingle, mingling harmoniously with the squirt and buzz of a frying-pan, engendered a hearty and haggis-like hodge-podge of substantial and delectable associations. The table was soon covered with that plain and solid sort of food which is generally to be found in the temporary halting places of such wayfaring men as coach-drivers and carriers, who are no mean connoisseurs in the more rational part of good living. Having done ample justice to the landlord’s good cheer, I laid myself back in my chair, in that state of agreeable languor which generally succeeds sudden rest after violent exertion, and abundant refreshment after long fasting. My imagination, struggling between the benumbing influence of sated appetite, and the exhilarating novelty of my present situation, floated dimly and drowsily over the various occurrences of life, till the iris-coloured texture of existence saddened into a gray heaviness of eye, whose twilight vision grew darker and darker, till the ill-defined line of connexion, with which consciousness divided the waking from the slumbering world, was swallowed up in the blackness of a profound sleep. And there, as we may suppose, I sat twanging, through the trumpet of my nose, my own lullaby, and rivalling the sonorous drone of M‘Glashan the piper’s bagpipe, who, when I came in, was sitting on a stone at the door, piping his diabolical music to the happy villagers.
I had not long remained in this “pleasing land of drowsyhead,” when my slumbers were violently broken by a tumultuous uproar coming down from the upper end of the village. I started from my seat in that state of giddiness and stupor which one generally feels when roused from sleep by violent and alarming sounds. My whole frame was benumbed by the uneasiness of my dozing position, and it was with the utmost pain and difficulty I could prevail upon my limbs to carry me to the window, to ascertain the cause of the uproarious din, which every moment grew louder and louder. The first objects that caught my attention were some straggling villagers, sweeping down the lane with desperate speed of foot, and dismal looks of consternation. I made towards the door, but the passage was choked full of alarmed and breathless fugitives, whose apprehensions had driven them to the first asylum which opportunity presented. Ejaculations and exclamations of all sorts were gasped forth by the multitude in the passage. Some swore in wrath, some laughed in self-congratulation, while others clamorously bewailed those of their kindred who might yet be exposed to the approaching danger. I inquired at a composed-looking middle-aged personage who stood beside me, the cause of this uncommon and alarming occurrence. “Ou,” said he, coolly, “M‘Harrigle’s bull’s run wud, and he’s gaun to take the command o’ the town till we get a new magistrate; for, as ye maun understand, sir, Bailie Brodie died yesterday.” The inhabitants rushed by in greater numbers, the sounds grew numerous, louder and more intelligible, as the huddling multitude approached; and I distinctly heard several voices bawling out, “Rin, ye deevil, or ye’ll be torn to ’coupins!—Lord preserve us! he’ll be ower the brae face—there he goes—confound ye! rin—mercy on us! sic a race!” The uproar and clamour, already run into utter confusion, turned fiercer and more riotous as a knot of people flew suddenly past the window, and left a space behind them that was immediately occupied by the bull, tumbling his huge unwieldy carcass down the lane, followed by an immense crowd of men, women, and children, and curs of every denomination. The hoarse bawling of the men, the screams of the women, and the clear treble of the children, the barking of curs, from the gruff big bow-wow of the mastiff down to the nyiff-nyaff and yelp-yelp of the terrier, along with the boo-baloo and bellow of the bull, formed a wild and savage uproar that was truly deafening. I dashed up the window and looked out. The enraged animal lumbered along, and heaved his ponderous bulk into fantastical attitudes, with his posterior appendage projecting straight out like a pole and tassel, his back raised, and his head ploughing on between his fore-feet. He hobbled, and hurled, and tumbled along with as blind an impulse as if he had been a mass of destructive machinery driven headlong by the mad impetus of some terrible and ungovernable energy. Away he went. The last sight I saw of him was as he entangled his horns in a thick stunted bush that grew on the top of a bank at some distance. The bush withstood the violence of his shock, and he tumbled with his feet uppermost. He struggled for a few moments; at length succeeded in tearing it out by the roots, vanished over the precipice, and went bellowing down the waterfall, amidst the shouts of the multitude who pursued him.
A group of people, very closely wedged together, moved slowly up the village. They were carrying some individual who had suffered from the fury of the enraged animal. They shouldered on towards M‘Gowan’s in mournful procession. All seemed extremely anxious to obtain a look of the unhappy sufferer. Those who were near pressed more closely towards the centre of the crowd, while those on the outside, excited by sympathetic curiosity, were leaping up round about, asking all the while the name of the person, and inquiring what injury he had sustained. “He’s no sair hurt, I hope,” said one. “Is he dead?” said another of livelier apprehensions and quicker sensibility. “It’s auld Simon Gray,” said a young man, who came running up out of breath to M‘Gowan’s door. “Simon Gray’s dead!” “Simon Gray dead!” cried M‘Gowan; “God forbid!” So saying, out at the door he rushed to ascertain the truth of the mournful intelligence. “Wae’s me,” said Dame M‘Gowan, “but this is a sair heart to us a’,” as she sank down in a chair, and cried for water to her only daughter, who stood sorrowfully beside her mother, alternately wringing her hands and plaiting the hem of her white muslin apron over her finger in mute affliction.
Simon Gray the dominie was brought into M‘Gowan’s. He was bleeding at the nose and mouth, but did not appear to have received any very serious injury. Cold water was dashed on his face, his temples were bathed with vinegar, and the occasional opening and shutting of the eye, accompanied with a laboured heaving of the breast, gave evidence that the dominie was not yet destined to be gathered to his fathers. The inquiries of the multitude round the door were numerous, frequent, and affectionate. The children were loud and clamorous in their grief, all except one little white-headed, heavy-browed, sun-burned vagabond, who, looking over the shoulder of a neighbour urchin, asked if there would be “ony schulin’ the morn;” and upon an answer being sobbed out in the negative, the roguish truant sought the nearest passage out of the crowd, and ran up the lane whistling “Ower the water to Charlie,” till his career of unseasonable mirth was checked by a stout lad, an old student of Simon’s, who was running without hat and coat to inquire the fate of his beloved preceptor, and who, when he witnessed the boy’s heartlessness, could not help lending him a box on the ear, which effectually converted his shrill whistle of delight into a monotonous grumble, accompanied by the common exclamation of wonderment, “What’s that for, ye muckle brute?” and a half hesitating stooping for a stone, which the lad who bowled on towards M‘Gowan’s took no notice of till the messenger of the boy’s indignation lighted at his heels, and bounded on the road before him.
By the affectionate attention of his friends Simon was soon able to speak to those around him, but still felt so weak that he requested to be put to bed. His revival was no sooner announced at the door of the inn than a loud and tumultuous burst of enthusiastic feeling ran through the crowd, which immediately dispersed amidst clapping of hands, loud laughs, and hearty jokes.
The landlord, after ministering to the necessities of the dominie, came into the apartment where I was sitting. “Surely, landlord,” said I, “this old man Simon Gray is a great favourite among you.”
“Troth, sir, it’s nae wonder,” was the reply to my observation. “He has gien the villagers of Warlockheugh their lear, and keepit them lauchin’, for five-and-twenty years back. He’s a gude-hearted carle too; he downa see a puir body in want, and rather than let the bairns grow up in idleness and ignorance, he’ll gie them their lear for naething. A’body’s fond o’ Simon, and the lasses especially, though he ne’er maks love to ane o’ them. They say some flirt o’ a lady disappointed him when he was at the college, and he vowed ne’er to mak love to anither. But I daur say there’s some o’ our lasses vain eneugh to think they’ll be able to gar him brak his promise. It’ll no do,—he’s ower auld a cat to draw a strae afore.