But should the evil prove so obstinate and deep-rooted as to triumph over this most commonly efficacious remedy, the dernier resort is an application to that arch-enemy of Satan, Mr. Grigor Willox Macgrigor, Emperor of all the Conjurors.
The name of this gentleman is well known to the inhabitants of the northern counties of Scotland, as the happy proprietor of that invaluable and wonderful relic, which the vulgar are sometimes pleased to denominate “Clach Ghrigair Willock,” alias “Clach Ban na Buchuchd,” but which, in our opinion, deserves a far more dignified, if not a more appropriate appellation. We humbly submit it should be called the Philosopher’s Stone, not so much out of compliment to its learned and elegant proprietor—although, by the bye, he is wonderfully philosophic—as out of pure justice to the stone itself; for it certainly is the best substitute for the grand object of the chemist’s research that has hitherto been discovered. If the philosopher’s stone will convert metal into gold, the “warlock’s stone” will convert water into silver by a process perhaps more round-about, but equally certain.
The history of such a precious curiosity as this would, no doubt, prove highly interesting to the “curious reader;” and the writer has to blame the shortness of his memory for not gratifying him to the utmost of his wish, Mr. Willox having more than once personally favoured him with a very eloquent account of it. Suffice it to say, that this stone was originally extorted by a very ancient ancestor of Mr. Willox from an amorous slut of a mermaid, who, unfortunately for her, happened to take a fancy to him, and no wonder, too, if he possessed in any degree the personal attractions of his lineal posterity. It happened, then, that this silly fool of a mermaid once thought it proper to throw herself in this gentleman’s way, expecting, no doubt, very different treatment from that which she experienced,—when her unnatural sweetheart, instead of offering her any endearments, most ungraciously chained her to a post, until she redeemed her liberty by this precious ransom. This was, no doubt, long, long ago, nobody knows how long, and the stone has necessarily seen many revolutions of times and masters in the course of its day. It graced for a long time the warlike standard of the brave clan Gregor, combining, as the upholsterer says, “great ornament with much utility;” for, while it served to set off not a little those splendid banners, it invariably secured their followers victory over their contending foes. It afterwards returned to the Willox family, with whom it has continued to the present day. It could not descend to a race of gentlemen who could do greater justice to its excellent qualities, and certainly the fault cannot be traced to the present proprietor, if, during his liferent use of it, the stone has lost an iota of its former celebrity.
Whatever might have been the ornamental qualities of this wonderful stone in the days of yore, it has now no great ornaments to boast of. It is a plain-looking article, strongly resembling the knob or bottom of a crystal bottle; and were it not that Mr. Willox solemnly assured us of his having been told by the great Lord Henderland himself, it must have at one time composed one of the Pleiades, we should have had much difficulty in believing it to consist of any other substance; but who could resist such respectable authority?[H] Although Mr. Willox informed us that a single collision with the ground would instantly divest it of all its wonderful virtues, the stone certainly bears ex facie marks of rough usage, and even such inauspicious accidents as coming into contact with the ground, or perhaps harder materials, in its time. However, the stone itself will tell no secrets, and on the subject of accidents of this sort it is the proprietor’s interest to be equally mute.
But whatever may be the nature and qualities of this stone, its virtues are sufficiently notorious. A single immersion of it into a hogshead of water instantaneously communicates to it such inconceivable virtue, that one drop of it is sufficient to cure the most desperate case of witchcraft in the land. Nor do the prevention and cure of witchcraft alone constitute the stone’s sole line of business;—for a valuable reward, there is no secret or calamity natural to man or beast in all this wide world, but it will reveal or prevent.—Exemple gratia: should some miserable vagabond of a thief, residing within the pale of Mr. Willox’s celebrity, be so fool-hardy as to lay his dishonest hands upon the goods or chattels of a neighbour, recovery of the goods, or at least an exposure of the thief, is the absolute consequence. The loser of the goods looks about him for his purse, and immediately proceeds to consult the Grand Oracle, Mr. Grigor Willox, as to the person who had the effrontery to steal his goods. Mr. Willox, willing to afford every information on reasonable terms, instantly produces the black stocking containing the stone, a single dip of which clearly developes the whole circumstance. After a long consultation, involving some inquiries as to suspected characters, the lynx-eyed Mr. Willox easily recognises some figures reflected on the vessel containing the water by the stone, conveying an exact representation of some old hag not very reputable for her habits, residing in the complainant’s neighbourhood; and thus all doubt is removed as to his suspicions being too well founded.
It is no subject for wonder, then, that this Great Oracle should be so highly prized and suitably encouraged. With commendable regard to the good of his beloved countrymen, Mr. Willox is in the habit of occasionally making a tour of pleasure through the counties of Inverness, Ross, and Caithness, whence, after some weeks’ absence, he returns home, with the double satisfaction of thinking, that while he has, in the course of his rambles, conferred the greatest benefit on suffering humanity, he has, at the same time, a good deal improved his own pecuniary resources. Those occasional peregrinations of this gentleman are now become absolutely necessary. Funds are not only very low in these bad times, but Mr. Willox is convinced more and more, every day he rises, of the truth of that proverb, “A prophet has no honour in his own country;” and he therefore finds it no less his interest than his duty to take a trip, as occasion suggests, to see his friends in the Duigh Tua.[I] For the most part, however, he resides at his seat of Gaulrig in Strathavon (usually called Strathdown), where, like the late Doctor Samuel Solomon, inventor and proprietor of that renovating cordial the Balm of Gilead, he may be consulted, either personally or by letter post paid, on payment of the usual compliment of a pound note. Accordingly, there are pilgrimages made to Gaulrig as well as to Gilead House. It is no rare matter for the inhabitants of both sides of the Avon to fall in with unfortunate pilgrims, whose longitude of face and decrepitude of limbs indicate the extent of their misfortunes and the length of their journey, inquiring the way for Taigh Maishter Willack.
PART VII.
Highland Festive Amusements.
Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
The simple pleasures of the lowly train;