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“Grim reader, have you
ever seen a Ghost?” —Byron.
“That the dead are seen no more," said Imlac, “I will not undertake to
maintain against the concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages and
of all nations. There is no people, rude or unlearned, among whom
apparitions of the dead are not related and believed. This opinion,
which prevails as far as human nature is diffused, could become
universal only by its truth; those that never heard of one another could
not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make
credible. That it is doubted by some cavillers can very little weaken
the general evidence; and some who deny it with their tongue, confess it
with their fears."—Rasselas.
AFTER the death of George Brown, Waiter Stewart, who was a much younger
man, sought out other companions, and with them continued to hold
argument on all matters in heaven and earth that his wild imagination
could conceive of. In the winter fore-nights he wandered about
incessantly seeking discussion, and often contrived not a little to
while away a dull evening. The writer has been favoured with the
following account by a friend, who knew him intimately—
It is not quite easy for me to analyse the feelings which as a boy I
entertained towards “Wattie Plants.” I, and the other boys of my age,
feared him, but we did not dislike him. Nothing could restrain us from
listening to his stories, and yet these stories inspired us only with
terror. They had for us a kind of fascination, from which we could not
tear ourselves, not unlike, I have often thought, that attributed to the
basilisk’s stare on the victim on which he fixes his eye. We could not
resist being listeners of his tales, and yet their rehearsal imparted to
us but torture and misery.
We had a sort of presentiment when he was to spend an evening in our
neighbourhood; and his approach, descried in the distance, was hailed
with a kind of morbid anxiety. We never let him out of sight till he
entered the house where he intended to pass the fore-night. I have a
most distinct recollection of these evenings. Wattie generally planted
himself beside the gudeman on one side of the hearth, while we, the boys
of two or three neighbouring families, huddled as closely together as
possible in the chimney lug on the other, the older members of the
household occupying the intervening space.
Wattie was soon in full swing with his ghost and goblin stories. He had
a queer way of screwing down his eyebrows, so that we seldom caught a
glimpse of his eye, but we watched his weird face with an intense and
fixed stare that was never once withdrawn, unless to dart a furtive
glance at the doorway to make sure that none of his doolies were
stealing in upon us. I can well remember the torture of apprehension I
sometimes suffered when compelled to sit with my back to the door while
Wattie was relating his interviews with the emissaries of the kingdom of
darkness. But this was little in comparison with what I had occasionally
to endure when selected to bear him company on his way home.
He was, notwithstanding his familiarity with the denizens of goblindom,
not a little alarmed of them, and exceedingly disliked making his way
alone in the dark. I suspect, however, he pretended more alarm than he
felt, and that his object was to secure a companion on the way, not so
much to ward off the ghosts, as to listen to his narratives. Some one, I
think Dr. Johnson, has said, “the pink of society is a good listener.”
Wattie was quite of this opinion; it mattered little who the listener
was, provided he could listen well—a child was as good as a philosopher.
Though he relished argumentation, it was only for the sake of excitement
Once roused, and in full career of speech, he paid not the smallest
attention to what might be said on the other side, and seldom gave his
opponent an opportunity of interrupting him.
When the disagreeable duty fell on me of seeing him home, he generally
caught hold of my hand at setting out, and seldom relinquished it till
he dismissed me on crossing the charmed circle which he had described
round his dwelling. To get over the way often took a long while, for he
walked slowly and talked incessantly. One of these occasions is still
very vividly in my recollection, and will serve as a sample of the
others :
Our path lay first through a birch wood, and then under the shadow of a
lofty precipice. The first object that attracted his attention was a
foraging hare that crossed our path. Wattie instantly stopped, and with
a large amount of mystery in his voice and manner, enquired if I had
seen anything. It was of no use for me to suggest, which however I did,
that it was only a hare.
“A hare!” he contemptuously replied, “it’s no more a hare than I’m a
hare. It’s a witch. I wonder now if it’s auld Janet out on her cantrips.
Did you notice, laddie, had she a limp? But we’se be up sides wi’ her
the nicht at ony rate. Think ye now gin we be past the place where she
crossed the roadie?”
“I’m sure we’re that,” said I; “but what about it?” “Eneuch about it,”
says he. “I’se let ye see how to manage the like o’ auld Janet when
she’s out on the stravaig as she is the nicht”
He then with great deliberation proceeded to trace a cross on the path
with the point of his camaig (walking stick). This done, he examined it
for an instant or two from various points of view to satisfy himself
that is was executed according to rule, and then in his most solemn tone
of voice pronounced over it the words, secula seculorum; after which,
recovering his usual manner, he added in a taunting strain— “Noo, Janet,
my lass, there’s a knot on your tether ye’ll nae lowse this twa days!”
After this, he discoursed of witches and their cantrips, and of the
various methods of restraining them, and told me how the monks of the
dark ages had discovered this and the other disenchantment. I cannot now
recollect particulars, but he had a long account to give of the
potentiality of the mystic words, secula seculorum the discovery of
which he attributed to a monk of Padua, in Italy.
We had now got to a part of the wood haunted by owls and night-hawks. As
these passed over our heads on noiseless wing, or uttered their shrill
scream from some neighbouring tree, Wattie every now and again
exclaimed, “ There they go, I wonder what that one wants now.” At last,
just as we had cleared the wood, the wild pipe of a night-hawk close at
hand brought him again to a dead pause, and after maintaining a solemn
silence for more than a minute, he asked, in apparent alarm—
"Did you hear that?” and without giving me time to reply, continued,
“that’s one o’ the spirits o’ the upper air. They aften wander about at
night; but dinna be feert, laddie, they seldom devour ony human bodie.
Among themselves they’re very cruel, an’ fecht an’ quarrel extraordinar’;
an’ they michtna be that chancey even to a human creatur gin they took
an ill-will at him.” This was said for the purpose of quieting my fears,
for I believe I was by this time almost trembling in his grasp; but
without waiting for the soothing effect of his encouragement, such as it
was, he went on—
“I mind, three years ago, ane o’ them, for some misty manners (misdemeanours),
was chained to the rock up there for a long time. It would wail awa’ for
a while, an’ then scream out wi’ vera pain. It often made me wae to hear
the peer thing; for I well kent it was enduran’ its torture. And what
think ye were they doan’ to’t ? Mair than a score o’ tormentors were
round about it jobban’ ’t wi’ their sharp little knives, an’ it skirlan’
wi’ pain. Then they would let it alane for a wee, an’ it would peuke awa’
like a hairaie greetan.’ Syne they would at it again, an’ it would to
the skirlan’ again.
“Weel, ae nicht as I was passan’, just about where we are ae noo, they
were by ordnar’ severe on’t; an* thinks I, it’s mair than I am able to
thole; I'll interfere on behalf o’ the creatur*. Wi’ that I steps across
the heather there, an’ makes a demonstration; but I’ll no try sic a
protick again. Down they came upon me wi’ a skailach like wallapyweeks,
and gin I hadna taen to my heels, an’ that wi* a’ speed, there’s no
sayan’ what they micht hae deen.”
Calculated to fill me with alarm as these tales were, yet such was my
confidence in Wattie’s experience and ability to meet whatever danger
might arise, that, while in his company, I seldom lost a feeling of
security, akin perhaps to what one experiences in a storm at sea, from
observing the selfpossession and unconcern of an experienced captain and
crew; but I cannot yet think of the homeward journey without a shudder.
Every bush was suspected of harbouring some malignant spirit, and every
rustle among the branches sent a shock through my nervous system, from
the effects of which, in spite of my philosophy, I sometimes feel I have
not yet quite recovered. Even now, I cannot pass through a dark wood
late at night, without recalling those boyish experiences, and
“Gloweran’ round wi’
anxious care
Lest bogles catch me unaware.”
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